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Diet e
eae
a

atl









GIRLS BOOK OF TREASURES

INCLUDING

ENTERTAINING AND INSTRUCTIVE STORIES, TRAVELS, PASTIMES,
Poems, Recitations, In-Door Games, Out-Door
GAMES, AND A GREAT VARIETY OF
OTHER Goop REapING

FOR GIRLS.
BY THE FOLLOWING EMINENT AUTHORS:

Emity Huntincton MILier, Laura E. Ricuarps, Matcotm Douctas,

Mary E. Burt, Ciara -G. Do.iiver, Mrs. O. Howarp

AND Many OTuHERs.



CHICAGO:

DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO.,
407-429 Dearborn Street.



COPYRIGHT, 1896.
DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & co.

CHICAGO:
DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY,
PRINTERS & BINDERS.



Something G\bout Spiders.

(i NE afternoon Cora came running to her Aunt Sarah and said, ,

f “Oh, Auntie, there is the funniest thing in the window I ever

saw. Docome and see what it is.”
‘Where is it, Cora?” said Aunt Sarah.

“In the parlor window, and Iam sure it was not there yester-

‘SY day! I never saw anything like it before, and I want you to

come and see it too.” So Aunt Sarah went with Cora to the:

window,and there, sure
enough,: was the object
of Cora’s surprise, and
what do you think it
was? Only a spider's
web. ae

Aunt Sarah was a ae
neat housekeeper, and : :
did not, like to see a he ane 5
spider’s' web in her == AA
window, so she said;
“Oh, my! Cora, run
and get the broom so
that we can sweep it
down. { don’t want
anyspider’swebaround
the house.”

“But what is a
spiders web, Aunt
Sarah?” asked Cora.

“A*spider’s web,
child, is something that
a spider makes to catch
flies.”

“But how does it
put it in the window,
Aunt Sarah?” asked
Cora. —

Cora seemed -so THR WAHAB IN THR WINDOW,





















































































































































































































































b

interested in the web that Aunt Sarah thought it a good opportunity to tell
her something about spiders, so seating herself in an easy chair and drawing
Cora to her knee, she said:

“And would my little girl like to know something about spiders we

‘Yes, indeed, Aunt Sarah,” said Cora. “I should like to know how they
build those funny little things. They look just like lace, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Sarah. “A spider’s web does look something like lace, and
the threads from which they are spun are as fine as those of any lace you ever
saw.”

“But how did the spider make his web in the window?” said Cora.

“The spider,” said Aunt Sarah, “spins his web from material which he car-
ries in his body. The spider picked out this place to weave the web. Crawl-
ing along the window, he fastened a single thread to the wall; then dropped
downward, spinning a singlethread as he dropped. After going some little dis-
tance he began to swing back and forth, farther and farther each time, until
he finally reached the wall. Clinging to this he fastened the thread there, so
you see he then had a rope upon which to travel back and forth. Starting from
another point, he wove another thread, and dropped down until he reached this
_ rope, or could reach it by swinging. So he worked until he had a large number
of these single threads, which form the framework of his web. These threads
all cross at some point. Using this as a centre, he worked round and round
until he finished the thicker part which you see in the centre. His hope was
that some fly might be caught in the meshes of the web, and be held there
until he could devour it. The spider's web is a wonderful piece of work.

“Think, Cora, how strong these little threads must be to support the weight
of the spider as he swings back and forth. But get the broom now, and we
will sweep it away.” Cora got the broom, but not with very good grace. She
was much interested in the spider’s web, and it was with sorrow that she saw
Aunt Sarah sweep it to the floor.







LON
SRE

ps

To AMINE S

YG

sa lt
AG

)



A SUMMER VACATION,



eA Very Quiet ©)uting.

7ND so another summer ends. Already the dog-wood is blush-
: ing her autumnal farewell to the nodding golden-rod and
the purple iron-weed. The wild asters are here, and the
odorless pink, and the leaves are beginning to drift down to
the wailing “hollows of the wood.”

I sit among my boxes, heaped in the hall convenient to
the front door, and jot down a few clinging thoughts of the
vanished summer. My outing was a small affair. I
couldn’t afford the coast, and 1 couldn't afford the moun-
tains, so I took a cabin midway the two in the barrens—the
barrens of Tennessee.

I wished a quiet summer and mineral water, and found both. Too much
water, when it rained, for my cabin’s: weather-worn roof.

When there is neither water for fishing or bathing, game to tempt one
to the woods, nor young folks and music, one may be forgiven, I trust, for
entertaining one’s self with one’s neighbors.

Just in front of my cabin are four others, whose back doors look my way.
A little further down there is a kind of rustic hotel, just far enough away to
relieve me of tell-tale odors from the kitchen, and yet near enough for my
entertainment such evenings as 1 do not care to go over, but sit and listen to
the music and catch the sound of flying feet and light laughter and the familiar
“Balance all!” of the tireless prompter. Quiet? Oh, yes. There has been
but little variety, little excitement. True, one night we were called over to the
“grand ball.”

The ball wasn’t a great success—there were too many anxious and weary
faces to me, who havea habit of studying faces and hunting through them for
the heart below and its unspoken griefs.

Now old Mrs. Preston, sitting over there against the wall, in a rustling
black silk and diamonds, the first outing her finery had known this season. She
did smile upon the dancers, and nod to this and that sister fashion-plate, and
her feather fan did move gracefully, and evenly, too, though an only son is lying
on his couch in the Bird’s Nest cottage across the yard, dead drunk, with every
door and window barred to keep off prying eyes and to keep careless tongues
off the track of the well-planned lie that sent the young man off “unexpectedly
on the evening train.”

Flutter your fan, Mrs. Preston. I shall not explain why it is your pretty

































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































POLLY WAS PROUD OF THBM,





a Sat nt eae

toy comes to a sudden halt whenever you hear a sound of laughter or calling,
as if all sounds took in the drunkard’s crazy yell in your ear. I shall not say
that it was I who found him asleep in the woods, too drunk to know that I
dragged him into my wagon and hauled him home after dark when the other
fellows had left the trail. I shall not tell that you looked at me with your
fashion-trained eyes full of a mute pleading, but that your lips only said: ‘‘You
are very good to shield us.” Us! You didnot say “him.” I understand your
meaning thoroughly and shall hold my peace. Wave your fan, nod your
welcomes while you can, while youcan, poor fashion-plate. The mother in you
will cry out above all that by-and-bye, and you will care very little who knows.
you came to this slow hole because you were afraid to ask an inherited inebriate
at the more fashionable places. You may talk about your “headaches,” and
slander your poor ‘‘liver” as much as you like, but you will admit that it is.
“heart trouble” at last, when you are no longer able to hide your skeleton in
its closet.

And the young mother with heavy eyes sitting over against the door,
always ready to run if a baby voice should chance to call out. What is the.
“srand farce’ to her beside the little life dragging through the terrible “second
summer?”

And the lady sitting near her—she isa cénsumptive. She will not tarry
long at the grand ball; in half an hour she will creep to her bed over in the Ivy
cottage, so tired, oh, so tired, But first she will kneel down by her white bed
and fold her white hands and say her prayers:

“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep.”

How simple! how simple and child-like! What is that about “Except ye
be as little children?”

She will kneel and say it for all she will be so tired. But the one floating
by in a cloud of blue tulle, in the arms of a lover, she will go to her room when
the birds begin their matins. Aye! she will get her full measure of joy, not of
the grand ball. And she will be tired, too—too tired to say her prayers. She
intends to “say them in bed.” She arranges her fluffy hair for the next day’s.
campaign and creeps between the white sheets. But she is thinking of that
last waltz. She taps the pillow with her slender fingers to the old, sweet
ae “Love comes like a summer sigh—

Gently o’er you stealing—”

And she is fast asleep, with the prayers unsaid. But there will come a

time, fair dancer, when the dance will be forgotten. You will not forget to pray



then, poor dancer, but your prayers will scarcely be like hers—she who sleeps
in the white moonlight in the room next your own—she who prayed, ‘Now I
lay me,” like a little child.

So it goes on before me—this grand ball. I live each one’s life, act each
one’s part. And when the lights are going I will peep in to see one lone figure
slowly leaving the hall.

Had she enjoyed it so much that she is loath to leave? She danced—
and sang, too, when there was a break in the music—sang a fierce “gem” from
some opera, when she might have sung some tender little ballad like ‘““Mar-
guerite” and given much more pleasure to her audience. But ballads hurt, and
“Marguerite” hurts, with its melancholy refrain of the day:

“The dreary day you'll ne’er forget, Marguerite.”

‘You cannot cheat me into an idea that you are enjoying the grand ball. I
could tell you a secret if I dared—lI could tell you of a dream—a ruined hope,
and a desolate heart that would be glad to go down to the Ivy cottage and
creep into her place—the consumptive’s. But the ivy is growing for her, not
you. So—

“On with the dance!”

Aye, on—there one passed me whose eyes continually seek the door. She
is writing a letter; a letter to her lover, who is too poor even to indulge ‘the
barrens.”

An old man goes by, awkwardly “‘swinging” a young girl. Heis a widower;
yes, and you sneer:

“Gay!”

Wait. He does not care for the dance; he is only deceiving himself with
the belief that it helps him to forget.

Forget! is all the world trying to forget? Sorry the dance is over, I go
back to my own leaky littie cabin.

I shall lie down and study the stars through those leak-holes bye-and-bye
when I shall have sat for half an hour under my vines watching the little
mother pass between the light and me in the cottage across the way. And
when the light goes out I shall know that the sick babe is asleep at last.

We had a picnic in the maple woods one day—a kind of woodland chat,
that was all, with a ‘quiet dance” in the hall to round up with in the evening.

But the next day when the sunshone and all the birds of the forest seemed
to have come over to sing about the cottages, and happy groups of children
swung on the knotted grape-vines or in the gaudy hammocks, and here or there
a party sat “at cards,” another told jokes, and all were quiet, if not happy, there



came a wail from the little mother’s room—a long, low, broken cry that had no
words to say the little baby was dead.

The birds sang on and the sun shone. Some dropped their cards and the
children were told not to laugh too loudly; while some, who. were mothers, too,
went down to offer comfort and to make a tiny shroud. One old gentleman
with silver hair and tender eye lifted his hat an instant when the tidings
came.

Their light burned low that night; I could scarcely see it through my heavy
vines. But when at midnight the train whistled I went down to the track and
brought up the little casket under my arm, so that the young father might not
himself be compelled to carry his dead darling’s coffin. He had come in
response to his wife's telegram and had brought the little casket.

I walked with him to the cottage, and it smote me some to hear a girl’s
voice singing a gay waltz song as we passed down the row of cottages. He
didn’t seem to hear, for a door opened and some one came to meet him with a
low, heart-broken cry. And when he folded her in his strong, man’s arms, I
slipped in with my burden, so that when she saw the child again it was lying
fast asleep, like a folded lily, hid in the little, lace-trimmed casket.

She meant to spoil no one’s pleasure. When the next train passed at twa
o'clock I followed the little procession down to the track, again carrying the
tiny casket, for mourners were few and I was the only pall-bearer.

The train whistled and death passed on.

When I went down to my breakfast at the hotel I wondered, seeing the
customary crowd and hearing the customary merriment, if death had really
passed among them. Improving? Oh, yes, we are allimproving. We take
long, hot walks and drink weak, cold coffee or watered milk, do penance for
the winter’s comfort by a series of sleepless nights, tiresome days and indiges-
tible dinners.

True, the “change” is something. It gives us many a jostle with humanity
teaches so many lessons. Now there is the old lady who plays cards “for
pleasure.” She has quarreled over the games until only a few will play with
her. Yet she playsfor pleasure. Ihave watched her sour old face grow harder
than stale cider when her partner, who plays for accommodation, doesn’t play
to please her.

I am “a looker-on in Vienna,” and I have tarried until there is no one left
to furnish me entertainment. Only one little woman remains, like me, for the
closing of the hotel. She so dislikes to give up the woods and the wild, sweet
freedom. As if I did not know that she so dreaded a return to a brute of a
husband, who makes her home so unbearable that she has invented that pretty



lie about her “lungs” and ‘a change of air.” Oh, I have learned all their pretty
tricks and the traps they set for freedom. Set traps for freedom? Why, yes.
Did you suppose that none but prisoners are slaves?

But they are all gone now; gone back to their old joys and their old pains
and their old heart-aches and burdens, as I shall go back to-morrow to mine,
and the summer for all of us will drop into the lap of oblivion, leaving neither a
track nor trace, except, perhaps, in the heart of the dead babe’s mother.

oe

7

©ur Mead oy.

SAW my wife pull the bottom drawer of the old bureau this evening and |
j went softly out and wandered up and down until [ knew she had shut it
up and gone to her sewing. We have some things laid away in that
drawer which the gold of kings could not buy, and yet they are relics that
grieve us until our hearts are sore. I haven't dared look at them for a year, but
I remember each article. There are two worn shoes, a little chip hat with the
brim gone, some stockings, pantaloons, a coat, two or three spools, bits of
crockery, a whip, and several toys. Wife, poor thing, goes to that drawer every
day of her life and prays over it, and lets her tears fall on the precious articles,
but I dare not go. Sometimes we speak of little Jack, but not often. It has
been a long time, but somehow we can't get over grieving. Sometimes when
we sit alone of an evening, I writing and she sewing, a child will cry out in the
street as our boy used to, and we will both start up with beating hearts and a
wild hope, only to find the darkness more of a burden than ever. It is still
quiet now. I look up at the window where his blue eyes used to sparkle at my
coming, but he is not there. I listen for his pattering feet, his merry shout, his
ringing laugh, but there is no sound. There is no one to search my pockets
and tease me for presents, and I never find the chairs turned over, the broom
down, or ropes tied to the door-knobs. » I want some one to tease me for my
knife; to ride on my shoulders; to lose my axe; to follow me to the gate when
I go and be there to meet me when I come; to call “good night” from the little
bed now empty. And wife, she misses him still more. There are no little feet
to wash, no prayers to say, no voice teasing for lumps of sugar, or sobbing with
pain from hurt toe, and she would give her life almost to wake at midnight and
look across the crib and see our boy as he used to be. So we preserve our
relics, and when we are dead we hope strangers will handle them tenderly, even
if they shed no tears over them.
—Bos BURDETTE,



|n-@oor Eames.

The Seeress.



»WO little girls come into the room where the others have
* gathered. One pretends to be a doctor, the other a
somnambulist or seeress, who knows more than ordi-
nary people. The doctor says that she can discover
the deepest secrets by falling into a magnetic sleep,
and then passes her hand three times over her eyes,
muttering a few unintelligible words, which sound like
SS = “Hocus, pocus, abracadabra,” and finally ties a black
handkerchief over the sleeper’s eyes to keep the bright light from disturbing
her.



Then the questions begin.

The doctor walks up to the nearest spectator, takes her pocket handker-
chief, and then turns to the sleeper.

“Does the seeress see what I hold in my hand?”

“A handkerchief.”

“Ts it white or colored?”

“Colored,



“What is the color—black, blue, or red?” Paar

“Blue.”

“Is it figured, plaided, or striped?”


The replies usually astonish the company, but the mystery is very simple.

The doctor and seeress have agreed upon certain words by which the
sleeper’s answers are guided. Thus old is the word for handkerchief. When
two things are mentioned, as “white,” or “colored,” the last is always the
correct one; and if three are named the somnambulist must choose the middle
one. When the game is well played it creates a great deal of amusement.

Little Market Women.

Each player takes the character of a huckster. One sells cherries, another
cakes, a third old clothes, a fourth eggs, etc.

They pace around the room, and as soon as the name of any one of them
is called she must shout her wares as loudly as possible. The buyer then
inquires for the
wares, and receives
the mmamsweer sarcsil
haven’t it; ask some-
body else.” For in-
stance: The player
who begins the game
callgumuPearss aiunlilic
pear-dealer instant-
ly screams: ‘Pears!
Pears! Buy some
fresh pears!” The

_ SS > -—— first speaker then
| - SHOWERS. asks: ‘Have you
apples, too?” “No,” replies the pear-seller; “go to the water-carrier.”

As soon as the water-carrier hears her name she begins to shout: ‘‘Water!
Water!” .

“Have you any raspberry vinegar?” asks the pear-seller. ‘No; go to the
umbrella-dealer.”

“Umbrellas! Umbrellas!” cries the umbrella-dealer.

“ave you sun-shades, too >” asks the water-carrier.

‘ “No,” she replies; ‘go to the cherry-huckster.” .

The cherry-huckster shouts: ‘Sweet cherries! Sweet cherries! Four

pennies a pound!”



GC Syopugqay

—__—— eens
LF ane





The umbrella-dealer asks: “Have you black cherries, too?”

“No; go to the flower girl.”

As soon as the flower girl hears her name she begins to call: “Beautiful
roses! Buy my roses!”

These examples will give an idea of the game, which, when well played, is
a very merry one. The larger the number who take part in it the greater the
fun.

Every seller who does not instantly offer her wares as soon as she hears
her name must pay a forfeit, and every buyer who asks for the wrong article,
for instance, flowers froma fruit-dealer, must be sentenced to the same
punishment.

The Comical Concert.

This is a very lively game, and often affords much amusement when
introduced at fairs or children’s festivals.

The children stand in a circle and each one tries to imitate the music of
some instrument. One pretends to play on
the violin by drawing the right hand to and
fro over the left arm; another raises both hands
to her lips, as though blowing a horn; another
drums on the table, as if it were a piano; a
fourth seizes the back of the chair and touches
the rounds as though it were a harp; a fifth
pretends to beat a drum; a sixth to play on
the guitar; a seventh to turn the handle of an
organ. The greater the number of players
the better. This, however, is only the beginning of the game; every musician
must try to imitate the sounds of the instrument as nearly as possible. For
instance:

Bum, bum, bum, for the drum.

Twang, twang, twang, for the harp.

Toot, toot, toot, for the horn, etc.

This strange mixture of sounds and gestures produces a very comical

effect when all enter into the game with spirit.
. In the center of the circle stands the “leader,” whose duty it is to beat
time as ridiculously as possible, to make the others laugh. He or she must
hold a roll of music or a baton.

In the midst of the tumult the leader must suddenly give the signal to
stop, and ask:

“Why don’t you play better?”

















The person addressed must zustantly give a suitable answer,

The harp-player should say:

“Because the harp-strings are too loose.”

The pianist should reply:

“Because one of the piano keys wont sound.”

If there isany delay in the answer, or if an unsuitable one is given, a forfeit

must be paid.
The Fourney to Ferusalem.

The players take their seats in a row, and before them stands the speaker
who is to describe a journey to Jerusalem.

Each one receives a name, which must be a word that will occur frequently
in the story, such as ship, sailor, sea, island, neighborhood, nation, storm, tree,







=
SS





SS SS

sun, air, etc. Whenever this word is uttered in the story the person who bears
it must rise and turn slowly round and round, until another person’s name is
mentioned.

If any one whose name is called forgets to turn she receives a blow with a
handkerchief, or is obliged to pay a forfeit. Whenever the word “Jerusalem”
occurs in the story the whole group must rise and turn around.

The point is to mention all the words often enough to keep the players
spinning. Of course, all sorts of adventures must be invented, the more
thrilling the better. The imagination has a wide field, and if the story-teller is
skilful enough to make the tale comical the listeners may become so interested
that they will forget to turn around.







Ghe fox and the Geese.

Ns FOX came once to a meadow, where a herd of fine fat geese
Sp were enjoying themselves. ‘‘Ah,” he said, laughing, “I am just
in time. They are so close together that I can come and fetch
them one after another easily.”

The geese, when they saw him, began to cackle with fear,
sprang up, and, with much complaining and murmuring, begged for their lives.

The fox, however, would not listen, and said, ‘There is no hope of mercy—
you must die.”

At last one of them took heart, and said: “It would be very hard for us
poor geese to lose our young, fresh lives so suddenly as this; but if you will


























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































grant us only one favor, afterward we will place ourselves in a row, so that you
may choose the fattest and best.”

‘“‘And what is this favor?” asked the fox.

“Why, that we may have one hour to pray in before we die.”

“Well, that is only fair,” replied the fox; “it isa harmless request. Pray
away, then, and I will wait for you.”

Immediately they placed themselves in a row, and began to pray after
their own fashion, which, however, was a most deafening and alarming cackle.
In fact, they were praying for their lives, and so efficaciously that they were
heard at the farm, and, long before the hour had ended, the master and his ser-
vants appeared in the field to discover what was the matter, and the fox, ina
terrible fright, quickly made his escape, not, however, without being seen.



“We must hunt that fox to-morrow,”

said the master, as they drove the

geese home to safe quarters, And so the cunning fox was outwitted by s
goose,

CRED
A fOamily Mrum Corps.

Oeee LITTLE ‘man bought him a big
brass drum;
Boom—boom—boom!
“Who knows,” said he, “when a
war will come?”
Boom—boom—boom!
“I’m not at all frightened, you understand.
But, if I am called on to fight for my land,
I want to be ready to play in the band.”
Boom—boom—boom!



fe got all his children little snare drums;
Boom—tidera—da—boom!
And they'd practice as soon as they’d fin-
-shed their sums.
Boom—tidera—da—boom!
“We're just like our papa!” in chorus said
they,

“And if we should ever get into the fray,
Why, it’s safer to thump than to fight any
day!”
Boom—tidera—da—boom!

And, showing her spirit, the little man’s
wife—
Boom—tidera—da—boom!
With some of her pin-money purchased a
fife;
Boom—tidera—da—boom!
And, picking out tunes that were not very
hard, :
They'd play them while marching around
the back yard,
Without for one’s feelings the slightest re-
gard,
Boom—tidera—da—boom-—a-diddle-dee—
Boom—tidera-da—boom!







The little old parson, who lived next door—
Boom—tidera-da—boom!
Would throw up his hands, as he walked the
floor;
Boom—tidera-da—boom!
“Wont you stop it, I beg you?” he often said.
“I’m trying to think of a text, but instead
The only thing I can get into my head
Is your boom—tidera-da—boom-a-diddle-
dee—
Boom—tidera—-da—boom!”"

All of the people for blocks around—
Boom—tidera—da—boom!
Kept time at their tasks to the martial
sound;
Boom—tidera—da—boom!
While children to windows and stoops woulda
fly,
Expecting to see a procession pass by,
And they couldn’t make out why it never

drew nigh,
With its boom—tidera-da—boom-—a-—diddle-
dee—

Boom—tidera—da—boom!

It would seem such vigor would soon abate;
Boom—tidera—da—boom!

But they still keep at it, early and late;
Boom—tidera-da—boom!

So, if it should be that a war breaks out,

They'll all be ready, I have no doubt,

To help in putting the foe to rout,

With their boom—tidera~da—boom—
Boom—tidevra-da—boom—
Boom—tidera~-da—boom-a~diddle--dee—
Boom—soom—BOOM!

—MALco_m DouGras.





@ Had Story.

a©/H me!” said the sponge. ‘‘Dear! dear! dear! well-a-day!”
‘‘Whatisthe matter?” askedthebath-tub. “Have

you been squeezed too hard, or has the nurse rubbed

soap on you again? I know soap never agrees with





“Tam rather exhausted by the squeezing, I con-
fess, replied the sponge; “but it wasnot for that I
sighed. Iam gradually getting used to these daily
-§) tortures.

“But I was thinking about the past; about my beav~
tiful home, from which I was so cruelly torn, and about the happy,.
happy life I led there.”

“Tell me about it,” said the bath-tub. ‘You have told me before, but I
always find it interesting. My home was in a tin-shop, as you are-aware. The
society was good, but it was rather a dull place, on the whole. You lived, you
say’ —

“On the coast of Syria,” said the sponge, with a sigh—‘“‘the coast of beau-
tiful Syria. There is a tiny bay, where the shore is bold androcky. The rocks
are bare above the water, but down below they are covered with lovely plants,
and fringed with gay mosses, beautiful to behold. The bottom of the sea is.
covered with silver sand, and over it move the crimson and gold colored jelly-
fish, the scarlet star-fish, and a thousand other brilliant creatures, making the
neighborhood always attractive and delightful. On acertain ledge of rock,,
close by the bottom, I lived, as happy an animal as could be found in the Med-
iterranean Sea.”

“What do you mean?” interrupted the nail-brush, which was new, and very
ignorant. ‘You, an animal? I don’t believe it. If your back were bone, and.
your hair pig-bristles; like mine, you might at least call yourself an animal
product; but you have no back that I can see, nor hair either.”

“You are extremely rude,” said the sponge. “But you know no better,
and ignorance should always be pitied rather than blamed. Iwas an animal,
‘my young friend, though now, alas! I am only the skeleton of one.

“J lived, as I said, a very happy life on my rocky ledge. I never moved
from it. I hadno occasion to do so, even if [had been provided with legs, as
many animals are. I never had any fancy fora roving life. To draw in the
warm, delicious water through the thousand small holes and canals of my

ome











frame, and spout it out again through my large holes, was my chief occupation,
and one of which I was never weary. The water was full of tiny creatures of
all kinds, and these formed my food, and gave me always plenty to eat. In
the spring I was always busy with my maternal duties. I brought out hun-
dreds of lovely little, round eggs, yellow and white,—the prettiest eggs you
ever saw. Ina short time they put out tiny feelers, a sort of fringe of waving
lashes, like those things
on the nurse’s eyes; as
soon as they appeared
I knew my babies were
ready tocome out; and,
sure enough, they soon
broke through the egg-
covering, and, waving
their lashes, swam out
into the sea.

‘Ate dirst, | they
stayed near me, de-
lighting my heart with
their pretty tricks; but
very soon they felt the
need of homes of their
own, and went off to
fix themselves on rocks
or coral-trees, and be-
come, in their turn,
full grown sponges,
like myself. I could
not complain, for I had
left my own mother in
thesame way. I never
saw any of them again,
except one dear child,
who made his home on
the shell of a largecrab. :
He grew finely; and became a nonle sponge; but the crab never seemed to
mind him in the least, and carried him about with him wherever he went. In
this way he often passed near my ledge, and as the crab was a friendly and
sensible fellow we often had a pleasant chat together.



















































































































































































































































“One day, one dreadful, dreadful day, I was talking thus with my son and
his landlord, when suddenly something huge anddark was seen above us, swim-
ming slowly downward through the clear water. At first] paidno attention to
it, supposing it to be a shark, or some other large fish; but as it drew nearer I
saw that it was no fish, but a strange and horrible monster, the like of which
had never been seen under the sea. It had four long arms, something like those
ef a cuttle-fish, only much less graceful, and divided at the end into five claws,
or feelers. (I have since learned that two of these arms are called legs, and
that the feelers are fingers and toes.) It had gleaming eyes, and in one claw
ait had something bright and shining. Ah! it makes me cold to think.of it. To
my horror the monster fixed his shining eyes on me, and swam directly toward
my ledge. The crab scuttled off with my son on his back, and I was left alone
and helpless. I saw one of the long arms extended; the five feelers clutched
mein their grasp. I shrank down, and clung with all my might to the rock:
but in vain. The shining thing in the monster’s other claw was slipped under
me. It cut my delicate fibres; I felt them give way one by one; and at last,
with one terrible cut and a violent wrench, I was torn from my peaceful home;
torn from it, alas! forever!

“T was thrown into a bag full of other sponges, which the monster had slung
about his middle; and then he pursued his path of destruction. I will pass
briefly over the dark days that followed—the drying in the sun, till all the life
was dried out of me; the fearful squeezing, with thousands of other wretches
like myself, into wooden cases; the voyage over seas; finally the exposure of
my bleached and miserable skeleton in the window of a druggist’s shop. All
of these things are too painful to be dwelt upon, and, as you know, I am now
resigned to my lot. I find in you a sympathizing friend. I have water given
me (though of very inferior quality) morning and night, and, were it not for the
soap and the squeezing, I should make nocomplaint. But often, as I hang
idly in my wire basket, my thoughts go back to my own dear home under the
Syrian shores; and I long for a draught of the warm, delicious water, for the
cool retirement of my rocky ledge, and for the sight of my dear son, tiding

gracefully about on the back of his crab.”
—Laura E, RICHARDS.







©ut-Ooor Eames.

Catching the Weasel.

HE whole party, except one, form acircle. The one who
is left out runs two or three times round the ring, and then
drops a handkerchief at the feet of a playmate, who must
dash swiftly forward to catch the ‘‘weasel”—namely, the
one wno flung down the handkerchief. While running

she sings: ‘Catch the

weasel in the wood. Now I’ve lost it; now

Ive found it. Catch my nimble little

weasel.”

When the game is well played itis very
lively andamusing. All the girls watch to see
where the weasel drops the handkerchief, and,
while running, the little weasel tries to give
the pursuer as much trouble as possible by
jumping to the right or left, by breaking
through the ring, and leaping forward and backward. When the ‘‘weasel” is
caught the pursuer takes her place.

The Drill.

This is another merry little game, which makes a great deal of fun.
The children stand in a row on the soft grass, with the exception of one,
who acts as captain. The game is most amusing when only two know it—the
' captain and the first one in the
line, who is called the corporal.
When all are in place the captain
stands in front and puts them
through a comical drill, giving
one order after another: ‘Cough,
Laugh, Slap your cheeks, Clap
your hands,” etc. The whole
company must obey the command
at once.
After a number of orders the
captain cries: ‘“Kneel down!” Every girl drops upon her left knee, and the
captain makes them all move close together, and then gives the orders: “Load






<< ——-



Aim!"—upon which every one stretches out her right arm till the command
comes: “Fire!” The corporal then gives her neighbor a sudden push, and
down goes the whole line on the turf. ;

Weaving Garlands.

This graceful little game is like a dance. The girls stand in a row, with
joined hands; one stands perfectly still while the others dance around until the
whole line is wound into a knot, singing: ‘Let us lovely garlands wind.” Then
they dance the other way, singing: ‘‘Now the wreath we will unbind,” until they
form a straight line.

Little Washer-women.

This game somewhat resembles weaving garlands. The players stand

opposite to one another in couples, each girl with her right hand clasping her

oi e
vs Ge ich eas G
aR oN
4

Lid,

G =

C=

LV



companion’s left. Then they swing their arms, slowly and gracefully, first
three times toward the right and then three times toward the left, singing:
“This is the way we wash the clothes, wash the clothes, wash the clothes.”
‘Then they unclasp their hands and rub them together as washerwomen do in
tubbing their clothes, singing: ‘This is the way we rub our clothes, rub our
clothes.”

The third movement is very pretty. The couple clasp hands just as they
do at first. then raise their arms in an arch on one side and slip through so that



they stand pack to back, then raise their arms in the same way on the other
side, and again slip through so that they stand face to face again. This must
be done very quickly, thrice in succession, while the players sing: ‘This is the
way we wring the clothes, wring the clothes, wring the clothes,” and then, stop-
ping suddenly, clap their hands, singing: “And hang them on the bushes.”
When several couples have learned the game well it is a very pretty sight.

The Flying Feather.

In this game the little girls join hands and dance around in a ring on the
turf, trying meanwhile, by blowing a bit of down, to keep it in the air. When
the players are skilful they can often dance for fifteen minutes without letting
the feather come to the earth.

Blind Man's March.

An open space of turf is chosen and a tree, stake or pole selected for a
‘goal, on which all sorts of trifles, fruit, garlands, flowers, etc., are hung as prizes,
Then a circle is drawn around the goal, about six or eight feet distant. The
players first dance hand in hand around the ring, then in couples around the
tree, and finally form two straight lines. Lots are then drawn to decide which
‘row shall make the blind march first, and all in that rank are blindfolded and
led by the others forty or fifty paces away from the ring and formed in couples
ina semi-circle. The game is prettier when a march is sung, to which the
blindfolded couple keep time. Only a very few reach the goal; most go far
astray. If any couples disagree about the direction to be taken they can
separate and each pursue a different path. Whoever reaches the tree, or even
stands inside the circle when the game is over, receives a prize. The march
is considered at an end when the singing ceases. Then all the players take off
their bandages.

There is plenty of laughing, for the couples are generally standing every:
‘where except near the tree. The game begins again by the other side com-
mencing the blind march.

The Beggar.

A life-size pasteboard figure of a man holding a hat in his hand is needed.
‘This hat has a hole, which serves as an opening to a calico bag. The players,
‘standing at acertain distance, try to throw a coin or some small fruit into
_ the beggar’s hat, The one who succeeds most frequently receives some trifling

prize. j |
The Naughty Straw Man.

A straw figure, completely dressed, is fastened to a tree in such a way that

it hangs about a foot from the ground. He must have one arm fastened





akimbo to his side and the other hanging free. After the players have had
their eyes bandaged and been furnished with a stick, the game begins. The
object is to thrust the stick through the opening. Whoever succeeds in doing
so can claim a prize. Of course, it often happens that the player misses and.
receives a light pat for the clumsiness from the straw man’s hanging arm. If
any player misses the goal and passes the naughty straw man, the bandage is.
removed and the player is considered out of the game.
Coronella.

This pretty game is played by onechild, and requires an ivory or a wooden
ball fastened by a string half-way down a wooden stick which ends in a point:
at one end and has a small leather cup at the other. The ball has a hole on
the side opposite to the string, and the object is to toss it into the air as far as
the string will let it go, and as it falls catch it alternately in the cup and on the
point of the stick.

* * *

se a [@\an.

WAHERE’S a darling little fellow,
Sits in church in front of me,



Yet acquainted well are we;
For on every pleasant Sabbath
We both nod and smile and say
“Good-morning! Iam glad to see you,
Hope youare quite well to-day.”

We didn’t have an introduction,
’Twas only eyes looked love to eyes

Till my heart was running over
With its unsung lullabies;

And I longed to hold and fold him
As of yore I did my own,

Ere from out the nest my birdlings
Any one of them had flown.

Coming in one day belated
His velvet cheeks I saw aglow,
And I knew somewhat had happened,
For the black eyes sparkled so;

Though his name I cannot tell you,

But there was no chance to whisper,
And so still he had to keep

Soon the little dreamland fairies
Gently drew him fast asleep.

But as benediction ended
Down the aisle he quickly ran,
“Stop! Lady, stop! I want to tell you |
I’se dot on pants! See! Tse a man!”
Could I keep the tears from starting
At ambition’s early morn?
So the kiss I gave in parting
Held a prayer for boyhood’s dawn.

Oh, the precious buds of childhood!
None may see the fruit or flower;
For the influence, wrong or holy
Makes or mars the manhood’s hour.
In the Father’s special keeping
May the mothers all be found,
Till the sowing and the reaping
To His glory shall redound!

—JOSEPHINE SRAMAN,.



Ghe Rogue's Holiday.

4 ITTLE ones,” said a hen to her brood one day in autumn, “This
is the time for nuts and acorns, let us go to the mountains and
feast ourselves before they are all gone.”

“That will be a happy time,” said the chicks. ‘Yes, we
are quite ready.”

So they started off together very early in the morning, and
stayed all day feasting.

Now I cannot say whether they had eaten too much, or if they really were
tired; at all events, they could not walk home, so they made a little carriage of
nut shells. No sooner was it finished than the hen seated herself in it, and
said to the chicks, “Come, you may as well harness yourself to the carriage and
draw me home; you are stronger than I am.”

“Very likely,” they replied,
“that we should be harnessed like
a horse and draw you; it would be
better to walk home than to do
that. No, if we have the carriage
at all, we shall ride, but we're not
going to draw you, so don’t expect
ite



While they were contending,
a duck came by. ‘You thieves,”
she quacked, “what are you doing
in my nut mountains? be off quick-
ly, or you will get the worst of it,” =
and she gave the hen a tremendous peck with her beak.

But the hen was not going to stand that; she flew at the duck and beat her
so that she was obliged to beg for mercy, and at last allowed herself to be har-
nessed to the little carriage as a punishment for her interference.

They all got in and drove at a furious rate, crying out, “Get on, duck! get
on!”

After traveling some distance they overtook two foot passengers—a pin
anda needle. ‘Halt, halt,” they cried, ‘do help us, we are so tired that we
cannot goa step farther; night is coming on, the roads are so dusty, and we
cannot sit down. We stopped at the door of a tailor’s shop and asked for
shelter, but he said he had too many like us already.”





The hen, seeing they were slight thin people who would not require much
room, allowed them to enter the carriage, only making them promise not te
step on the chicks’ feet.

Late at night they reached a roadside inn, and by this time the duck was
getting so tired that her legs were unsteady, and she waddled terribly. So
they stopped and asked for supper and a night’s lodging. The landlord made
many objections at first—his house was already full, and he thought these new-
comers did not look very well.

However, the hen flattered the old landlord, and promised that whatever
eggs the she and the duck might lay while they stayed should be his. So the
landlord gave them shelter, and glad enough they were of a night's rest.

Early in the morning, while every one else was asleep, the chicks and hen
awoke, and seeing the egg which she had laid they made a good breakfast on
it, and threw the shell into the kitchen fire. Then they went to the pin-cushion,
where the needle and pin still lay asleep, and, carrying them away, stuck the
needle in the cushion of the landlord’s arm-chair and the pin in his towel,

After performing these tricks ey flew away through the open window.
and across the heath.

The duck had roosted in the outer court, and was awakened by the rustle
of wings; rousing herself quickly, she plumed her feathers, and espying a
stream near, partly flew and partly waddled down to it, for to swim home
would be far better than drawing that heavy carriage.

A few hours after this, the landlord arose and prepared to wash himself;
but on taking up his towel to wipe his face, the point of a pin made a long red
scratch right across from one ear to the other.

It was rather painful; but he dressed himself quickly, and went into the
kitchen to light his pipe. As he stooped to putin a match, out popped a piece
of burnt egg-shell into his eye.

The pain made him start back, and sink down into his chair, which stood
near; but he started up again more quickly than he had sat down, for the
needle in the cushion pricked him terribly.

Then was the landlord very angry, and began to suspect his guests who
had arrived so late the night before. He went out to look for them, and found
they were gone. Then he took an oath that he would never again admit such
knaves into his house—ragamuffins who ate a great deal, paid nothing, and,
above all, instead of thanks, performed knavish tricks.

eae















LISTEN, my boy, I’ve a word
for you,

















true! G

At work or at play, in darkness or F
light,

Be true, be true, and stand for the
right.



List, little girl, I’ve a word fork
you,

*Tis the very same word: Be true!
Be true!

For truth is the sun, and falsehood
the night;

Be true, little maid, and stand for
the right.





@he Hare and the \edgehog.

T was a beautiful morning, about harvest time, the buckwheat was in
flower, the sun shining in the heavens, and the morning breeze
47. waving the golden corn-fields, while the lark sang blithely in the
clear, blue sky, and the bees were buzzing about the flowers. The
villagers seemed all alive; many of them were dressed in their best
clothes, hastening to the fair.

It was a lovely day, and all nature seemed happy, even to a
little hedgehog, who stood at his own door. He had his arms
folded, and was singing as merrily as little hedgehogs can do on a
pleasant morning. While he thus stood amusing himself, his little wife was
washing and dressing the children, and he thought he might as well go and see
how the field of turnips was getting on; for, as he and his family fed upon
them, they appeared like his own property. Nosooner said than done. He
shut the house door after him and started off.

He had not gone farther than the little hedge bordering the turnip field
when he met a hare, who was on his way to inspect the cabbages, which he also
considered belonged to him. When the hedgehog saw the hare he wished him
“Good morning!” very pleasantly.

But the hare, who was a grand gentteman in his way, and not very good-
tempered, took no notice of the hedgehog’s greeting, but said in a most imper-
tinent manner: ‘ How is it that you are running about the fields so early this
morning?”

“T am taking a walk,” said the hedgehog. __

“Taking a walk,” cried the hare, with a laugh; ‘I don’t think your legs are
much suited for walking.”

This answer made the hedgehog very angry. He could bear anything but
a reference to his bandy legs, so he said: ‘“‘ You consider your legs are better
than mine, I suppose?” ;

‘Well, I rather think they are,” replied the hare.

“T should like to prove it,” said the hedgehog. “I will wager anything
that if we were to run a race I should beat.”

“That is a capital joke,” cried the hare, ‘“‘to think you could beat me with
your bandy legs. However, if you wish it, I have no objection to try. What
will you bet?”

“A golden louis d’or and a bottle of wine.”

“ Agreed,” said the hare: “and we may as well begin at once.”





“No, no,” said the hedgehog, ‘not in such a hurry as that. I must go
home first and get something to eat. In half an hour I will be here again.”

The hare agreed to wait, and away went the hedgehog, thinking to himself:
« The hare trusts in his long legs, but I will conquer him. He thinks himself
a very grand gentleman, but he is only a stupid fellow, after all, and he will
have to pay for his pride.” !

On arriving at home, the hedgehog said to his wife: ‘‘ Wife, dress yourself
as quickly as possible; you must go to the field with me.”

‘«What for?” she asked.

«Well, I have made a bet with the hare of a louis d’or and a bottle of
wine that I will beat him in a race, which we are going to run.”

«Why, husband,” cried Mrs. Hedgehog, with a scream, “what are you
thinking of? Have you lost your senses?”

“Hold your noise, ma’am,” said the hedgehog, ‘and don’t interfere with
my affairs. What do you know about a man’s business? Get ready at once to
go with me.”

What could Mrs. Hedgehog say after this? She could only obey and fol-
low her husband, whether she liked itor not. As they walked along, he said to
her: “Now, pay attention to what I say. You see that large field? Well,
we are going to race across it, The hare will race in one furrow, and I in
another. All you have to do is to hide yourself in the furrow at the opposite
end of the field from which we start, and when the hare comes up to you, pop
up your head and say: ‘Here Taran

As they talked, the hedgehog and his wife reached the place in the field
where he wished her to stop, and then went back and found the hare at the
starting-place, ready to receive him.

“Do you really mean it?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed,” replied the hedgehog, “I am quite ready.”

“Then let us start at once,” and each placed himself in his furrow as the
hare spoke. The hare counted “One, two, three,” and started likea whirlwind
across the field. The hedgehog, however, only rana few steps, and then popped
down in the furrow and remained still.

When the hare, at full speed, reached the end of the field the hedgehog’s
_wife raised her head and cried: “Here armas

The hare stood still in wonder, for the wife was so like her husband that
he thought it must behim. “There is something wrong about this,” he thought
“However, we'll have another try.” So he turned and flew across the field at
such a pace that his ears floated behind him.



The hedgehog’s wife, however, did not move, and, when tne nare reached
the other end, the husband was there, and cried: “ Here I am.”

The hare was half beside himself with vexation, and he cried: “One more
try, one more.”

“I don't mind,” said the hedgehog. “I will go on as long as you like.”

Upon this the hare set off running, and actually crossed the field seventy-
three times; and atone end the husband said: ‘Here am I,” and at the other
end the wife said the same. But at the seventy-fourth run the hare’s strength
came to an end, and he fell tc the ground and owned himself beaten.

The hedgehog won the louis d’or and the bottle of wine, and, after calling
his wife out of the furrow, they went home together in very good spirits, toenjoy
it together; and, if they are not dead, they are living still.

The lesson to be learnt from this story is, first, that however grand a
person may think himself, he should never laugh at others whom he considers
inferior until he knows what they can do; and, secondly, that when a man.
chooses a wife, he should take her from the class to which he himself belongs;
and if he isa hedgehog she should be one also.





Ghe P\appy Shoemaker.

VIC-TIC! Tac-tac! Toc-toc!’ This was what the shoemaker’s
hammer said. It was driving pegs into a shoe.
‘‘Coo-coo! Weet-weet! Whir-r-r! Cut-cut-cut! Cock-a-doo-
oo! Pit-pit-pit!’ This was what the rest of them said.
Af What strange sounds in a shoemaker’s shop!
e «Whir-r-r!” Around flew a gray bunch of fur, with a tail



whizzing on the end of it. This was Peter, the gray squirrel. And ‘“Whir!
went Jim, the red squirrel, in another cage close by.



The shoemaker looked up and smiled. ‘“Tic-tac! Good morning,” said the
hammer and he together. .

“Cut-cut!” cried the bantams in one corner of the room.

“Are those chickens eating shoe-pegs, Mr. Shoemaker?”

“Qh, no! Oats, of course! You might think they were shoe-pegs,
though!”

“Jocko, don’t you want to come out and see the lady?” continued the
shoemaker. | , |



AEE DI VETTE TS SOE EN et

ne

Uy
ft
A



Pe ee ear a



A
4
i
/
/
Â¥

‘No, no!” squeaked a white-faced monkey, almost as plainly as a child.
And he shook his head as he took a fresh bite of his apple.

“Oh, you don’t! Well, then you come, Jumbo.”

Jumbo, the black and white guinea-pig, only said, ““ Wee-wee,” and the little
pigs squeaked “Wee-wee” in chorus.

“They came all the way from China,” said the shoemaker.

Then all the doves in half-a-dozen cages began to plume themselves and say,
“Coo-coo!” very softly.

“Yes; you are handsome creatures, and you know it.” There were several
kinds of doves. One great beauty, white and brown, flew and perched upon the
shoemaker’s shoulder.

“You must be happy, working here amid so many pets,” said the lady.

“Oh, yes! I teach them all sorts of tricks, Now see this youngster!”

The shoemaker laid down his hammer, and reaching to a cage of white rats,
took out a baby one. “I am training him to walk the rope,” said the shoe-
maker.

He took the pretty little thing, who peeped softly all the while, and put him
to the gas-pipe, which hung down near the bench.

The young rat began to climb. ‘Gently, now! Don’t fall off!” And the
shoemaker helped him with his finger. The rat climbed up till he came to a
rope. Then he crawled across the rope to the cage again.

“He does his lesson very nicely,” said the lady.

“Yes; they are all well-behaved,” replied the shoemaker. “If Jocko wasn’t
so busy with his apple he would come out, too.” e

“IT am very happy indeed with my pets, as you said, madam. It is pleasant
to work among so many creatures that love you.”

“Tic-tic! Tac-tac! Toc-toc!” went the hammer again. The birds, the

guinea-pigs, the squirrels, and the monkey began their joyful chorus.

The lady opened the door to go away.
“Good morning!” said the shoemaker, with a bright smile.
“Coo-coo! Pit-pat! Wee-wee! Tic-tic!”









avr, Ghe @etopus.

HAT an ill-shapen monster is shown in this picture! It is
called the devil fish, and itis certainly well named. It is
called by this title not only on account of its ugly shape, but
because of its fierce attacks upon other inmates of the sea.
The real name of this fish is the Octopus, which means
eight-footed, though it is also known as the cuttle fish and
the squid. Withits picture before us it is not necessary to
describe its shape. Indeed, this would be hard to do. The most
striking feature is the great staring eyes—which are said to be
jarger than those of any other animal. They have been known to measure
eight inches in diameter. Think
of two great eyes eight inches
across staring you in the face! Its®
eight arms are furnished with
little fleshy cups with shell-like
edges; these fasten to any object
coming within their reach and
cling so tightly that no victim can
escape the monster's clasp until
its arms are cut off. Some kinds
of these fish have long feelers, or
tentacles, about three times the
length of the body of the fish. Its
width is nearly as great. Its
mouth is situated in the center of
the body and food is carried to it
by the arms, and it has not only
one but several rows of teeth. It
has a very funny way of moving;
instead of using its arms to help itself, as we would think, it breathes in ies
quantities of water through its gills and then by a sudden motion squirts the
water out of a tube near the head. This drives the fish backward like an
arrow. The Octopus is usually found in deep water, often-times among the
rocks on the bottom; although frequently found floating on the surface it seems
to prefer to live beneath the water. The color is black above and white be-
neath, though it possesses the strange power of changing its color so as to







appear like surrounding objects. When watching for prey it lies with arms rest-
ing and tenacles flying, looking much like sea-weed, but let a careless fish draw
near and it will be instantly dragged down by its terrible arms, which fold them-
selves about it and draw it to the central mouth, and all is over.

The Octopus has not been studied as carefully as many other sea mon-
sters. Living as it does in deep water it is not so easy to study. Many won-
derful stories are told bysailors of their lying upon the ocean looking like small
islands and of even taking hold of small ships and of drawing the vessel with
all its crew to the depths below. Some of the smaller species have been driven
ashore even on our own coast. In theearly part of this century one was driven
ashore at the entrance of Delaware Bay and was so heavy as to require four
pair of oxen to bring it tothe shore. It was said to weigh about five tons, that
is, as much as ten good sized horses. It was seventeen feet long and eight-
teen feet wide. Its mouth was nearly three feet across. Do you wonder at its
strength? :

During gales of wind, or in places where there is a small current, fishermen
often drive them into shallow water where they are usually captured, large
quantities of oil are then taken from their livers; so we see that even the
ugly devil fish, hideous as he is, may be made to serve the purpose of man.

aX
Only Live [P\inutes.

i IVE minutes late and the table is| Five minutes late and school has begun,
is ngs spread, What are rules for, if you break every one?
rd i The children are seated and grace | Just as the scholars are seated and quiet
wes = 3 . . . .

has been said; You hurry in with disturbance and riot.
Even the baby, all sparkling and rosy,
Sits in her chair by mamma, so cozy!



a








Five minutes late on this bright Sabbatk

morn;
Five minutes late and your hair all askew, All the good people to church have now
Just as the comb was drawn hastily through. gone.

There is your chairand yourtumbler and plate, Ah, when you stand at the Beautiful Gate,
Cold cheer for those who are five minutes late. What would you do if five minutes late?













i a) ae
Ope Greey Cc ins ©

HEY were just exactly the same size, with the same beady,
black eyes, and feet that looked as if they might have corns.
on them. They dressed alike, too, in lovely green coats and
hoods edged with red. Their voices were not at all sweet, but
they loved to sing, and never seemed to mind if people did
laugh.

' ‘They lived ina cigar store, where they were often spoken
to and given pieces of candy or sugar.

They liked to be talked to and admired, but if anybody tried to touch
them they would scratch or bite.

This seems very naughty, but Polly and Patty were not little giris, but
parrots.

Mr. Peters, the man who kept the store, bought them of a sailor. They
could only speak Spanish then, but they soon learned English. As they were
very tame he did not keep them ina cage, but let them perch on a pair of
large deer-horns near the front of the store. They never tried to get away,
but would say, ‘‘How do you do? Glad to see you!” when any one came in,
and “‘Good-by! come again,” when they went.

One day Mrs. Peters, who was a very prim old lady, thought she would’
take Patty home with her, as she was often very lonesome. But Patty missed:
Polly so much that she would not talk at all. She moped on her perch alk:
day, with her feathers ruffled up.







An old friend of Mrs. Peters called to see her. She was French, and

could not speak very good English. She tried to tell about the old fat poodle

she had had so many years, and that had just died. She cried as she talked,
and Patty must have thought it very funny, for she opened her beady eyes
and straightened up to listen. In afew moments she began to imitate the
French lady—sniffing and sobbing, and saying, in the same broken English:
“Mon poor Flore! So sweet dog!”

Prim Mrs. Peters was very much shocked at Patty. She was alarmed for
fear her friend would be offended, so she took a piece of green baize and threw
it over the naughty bird, thinking that in the dark she would be quiet. And
so she was; for some time she did not make a sound; but all the time she was
pecking and pulling at the baize until she had made a hole large enough for
her bill and one eye. Then she cried out, ‘‘“Hooray!” in loud tones, and at once
began to sniffle and sob and talk about ‘poor Flore” more than ever.

Mrs. Peters hurried her into another room. She sent her back to the
cigar store the next morning, where Polly welcomed her back by cackling like
a hen. :

But the French lady has never liked Mrs. Peters since, nor does Mrs.

Peters like parrots.
—CLARA G, DOLLIVER.

Se
horn of H\is ocks.

j PLACED my boy in the barber’s chair, , No more I shall see those flying curls,



To be shorn of his ringlets gay; And my homeward steps I wend;
And soon the wealth of his golden hair | Another stage of his life unfurled,
On the floor in a circle lay. Where youth and childhood blend.
‘Twas a trifling thing of daily life, So when from his chair he stepped at
And to many unworthy of thought— length,
Too small a theme ’mid the toil and strife He stood, with his artless smile,
Of this world’s changing lot. Like Samson shorn of his locks of strength
But the ringing out of the cruel shears eo aie:
To my heart-strings caused a pang, Thus one by one will vanish away ‘
For they changed the child of my hope and The charms of his childish life,
fears And each bring nearer his manhood’s day,
With the scornful tune they sang. With its scenes of toil and strife.
My thoughts were bent on the little cap, God grant that my lease of life may last
And the curls that round it twined Through his changing years of youth;
Like golden clasps with which to trap ‘Till the danger rapids of life are passed

The sunbeam and the wind. And a Samson stands in truth.





©hased by Savages.

y AWRENCE NORTON was a young man of twenty-two. He
, had finished his education, and was desirous of seeing ‘‘some-
thing of the world,” as he expressed it. His uncle, who wasa
large ranchman in Montana, had frequently written Lawrence,
urging that he visit the west and make his home there. Law-
rence was anxious to go, and in afew short weeks found himself
safe in his uncle’s home.

The house in which his uncle lived was not such as Lawrence
had been used to. Neither [~ ae
was life on the plains as
luxurious as in the eastern.
cities, yet Lawrence en-
joyed it all. It was a
change to him, and the
wild and free life which he
led there was so pleasant
that he thought he should
like always to remain.

On his uncle’s ranch
were many hundreds of
horses and of cattle. Only
a few days after his ar-
rival his uncle presented
him with a fine horse and
saddle and told him tok
make the most of it. Day |
after day Lawrence went |=
out to help herd the cat-
tle. On one occasion, he
thought he would ride to s
the hills some distance | 7 : B.
away and explore them. His horse was fresh, and he galloped rapidly forward.
The air was bracing and Lawrence felt every nerve thrill with life and vigor
Reaching the hills he dismounted, and, staking out his horse, he started out en
foot in search of whatever adventure might befall him,



















































































































































Like every other herdsman, he carried his trusty rifle with him. As he
reached the summit of a little hill he saw a band of Indians encamped in the
vale below him. Lawrence thought it would be great fun to send a rifle ball
over their heads and terrify them. He did not think of the danger there would
be in such a course for himself, so, raising his rifle to his shoulder, he fired in
tthe direction of the encampment. No sooner was the gun discharged than
‘tthe Indians sprang to their feet in great commotion. They ran hither and
ithither, gathered their arms together, and hastily mounted their ponies. Then
‘Lawrence realized what he had done. Hisown horse was some distance away,
and the Indians were coming in the direction from which the gun had been
fired. Lawrence ran rapidly to the spot where he had left his horse, and
reached him none too soon. As he was mounting, the Indians appeared on the
summit of the hill, and seeing him, at once gave chase. Then began a race
for life. Lawrence knew that if he fell into the hands of the Indians there was
little hope forhim. He had had no time to reload his gun, and so was unable
to defend himself. He urged his gallant steed to the utmost, and started off
across the plains, hoping that he might escape them. But the ponies of the
Indians were fresh, and although Lawrence had some rods the start, yet he felt
that there was but little hope of escape. Knowing that his gun was of no use
to him, and that it added so much weight to his horse, he threw it away.
Then he threw away his coat and hat, and sped onward.

For miles and miles they raced. At one time the Indians were close upon
him, but his horse seemed to know that life depended on his efforts, and that
another mile would bring him within reach of assistance. So springing for-
ward with renewed vigor, he soon placed a safe distance between him and his
pursuers. Lawrence reached his companions badly frightened, and it was with
difficulty that he could tell them of his escape. Although they rejoiced that
Lawrence had gotten off unharmed, yet none of them felt like blaming the
Indians for chasing a man who, without any cause whatever, had fired upon
them.





sine wallow-Gailed Hyen.

play,
And mamma said, as
skipped away,
“Don’t go to the barn, now

they



mind!
For we’ve shut up the chickens that came
to-day,
From the nest old Swallow-tail hid in the
hay

That nobody ever could find;
And the mother is clucking with all her
might,
Clucking and strutting and ready to fight:
Why even the men
Are afraid of the hen!
Don’t go to the barn, I say.”

“No! no!” cried the good little girls; “Not
we!”

So out they scampered the world to see;
Such a great big place for play!
The bird and the bee flew far and free,
And the children followed, so full of glee
They never noticed the way;
They leaped the logs near the buzzing mill,
Went over the fence and under the hill,

Waded the pond

To the barn beyond,

And the grand old “‘acorn-tree.’

Dh, and the sun was warm that day‘

The dear little girls were tired of play,

So down they sat in the shade.

“Just hear hear old Swallow-tail cluck!” said

Fay;

“Come on! Let’s go in the barn,” said May.

“It’s silly to be so ’fraid!”

So up she ran and took out the pin

From the staple that fastens the chickens im
“Oh, oh!” cried she;
“Do come and see!

Come into the barn, I say!”

Right in went the bold little girlies then,
In spite of the fowl that fought the men
That grave old, brave old bird.
They counted the little ones, “eight, nine,
tenis

They kissed them over and over again,
But the hen said never a word.
Puzzled and bothered and filled with doubt,
She walked and stalked and circled abaut

All ’round the floor,

Till she reached the door,

Then off went the swallow-tailed hen.

“Good-bye! good riddance!”
with a frown;

And she tucked the birdies all up in her
gown—

Wee roosters and comical pullets!

Such dear little, queer little balls of down,

Puffy and fluffy and yellow and brown,

With eyes as round as bullets!

Set a thousand like them up in a row

quoth May

| Not one could cackle, or cluck or crow

But out they’d pop
And away they’d hop.
Just cunning from claw to crown!

“But Swallow-tail’s gone, she’s gone!” sighed
Fay;

“She'll never come back, she’s gone to stay,
The poor little chicks will die!’
“Oh, ho! what a goose to be frightened away
By two little, kind little girls!” laughed May,
“That never would hurt a fly.
We'll just run out and shoo her back in,
And shut up the door, and put in the pin

So nobody’ll know,

Then off we’ll go

To the saw-mill yard and play.”

Now where had Swallow-tail gone,oh, where}
They hunted here, and they hunted there,
But the fowl had hidden well;



“We can’t go ’way, it wouldn’t be fair,”
Said May, half crying; “I do declare
I never should dare to tell!”
“I wish, I wish,’ wept sorrowful Fay,
*We’'d minded mamma, and kept away!

No use to talk!

Some terrible hawk

Has carried her up in the air!”

But that was a great mistake of hers,
For, still as a mouse when Tabby stirs,
From the roof she peered below;
And a mother, as all the world avers,
Whether in satin, or feathers, or furs
Is a match for every foe.
But the very minute they came in sight
She pounced on May, like a flash of light;

Like the teeth of saws

Were the sharp, sharp claws,

find they clung to the child like burs.

‘Oh, the hen had whetted her horny beak!
And she pecked and pecked the pretty red
cheek

Till down the red bfood rotled,
All the birds of the air heard littl May
shriek!
Looked down and saw how a maiden meek,
Could fight like a soldier bold!
For Fay, with her little fat hands doubied
tight,
Went hitting old Swallow-tail, left and right,
Yet the hen stuck fast,
Till over at last
Fell May, all blinded and weak!

Away to her chickens, “eight, nine, ten,’
Went the terrible bird that scared the men,
And whipped disobedient girls;
And the children, safely at home again,
Owned all their naughtiness there and then,
While mamma smoothed the curls
And bathed the wounds all swollen and red;
But, though not an angry word she said,

To see her so sad,

Hurt ’most as bad

As the beak of the swallow-tailed hen!
AMANDA T’. JONES.

©hristmas ve.

On the midnight air
()| Comes the faintest tingle of fairy
bells.
\Fhey are coming near,
They are coming here,
And their sweet sound swelling of joy fore-
tells.



It, is Santa Claus,

And he cannot pause;

But down the chimney he quickly slides;
fach stocking fills,

Tit! it almost spills,

Then gaily chuckles, and off he glides.

How happy he,

The saint to be

Of ail the giris and ali the boys!

He hears his praise

Thro’ the holidays,

As they eat their sweets, and break their
coys.

So still he smiles,

And the time beguiles

Concocting schemes our hearts to cheer;

He loves us all,

And great and small

Regret that he comes but once a year.
—WILLIAM BaRcLAy DUNHAM



Robbie's Hleigh-Ride.

; â„¢, OBBIE DAWSON did so hate to write compositions, and now
YY he must have one about ‘“‘goats” ready to be handed in by the
next Thursday. It was Tuesday already, and he didn’t know
any more about goats than he did the week before, when his
subject was given him. He told his Uncle Robert that all he
® knew about them was that they were a very fine thing for a boy

to have, aad he wished he had one to drive.

Finally a happy thought struck him. “T’ll go and get Uncle Robert to
write it for me,” said he to himself. ‘“He’s going back to New York next
week, and it’s a pity if he can’t do a favor for a fellow before he goes.”

Uncle Robert was easily found but not so easily persuaded, as Robbie
found to his sorrow.

‘Look here, Robbie, my boy,” said he, ‘“‘your schooling wont be of the
least benefit to you, as you will learn to your cost when it is too late to rectify,
if you are going to get some one else to do all the tasks set: before you. You
are the one that needs the discipline, not I, but if I were to doit I would reap
all the benefits, and youwould reap allthe harm. Besides, it would be cheating
your teacher.

“But Pll tell you what I will do. Find out all you can about goats, their
home, nature, use, etc.; copy it neatly twice, once for me and once for your
teacher. Hand your teacher hers, and if she accepts hers I will mine, and will
send you a live specimen of the animal as soon as I get home, providing that
you promise hereafter to do all the tasks assigned you without seeking or re-
ceiving unlawful assistance.”

‘‘Tt’s a bargain,” said Robbie, and off he rushed to the library for pencils,
papers, and book helps.

By Wednesday night two neatly written sheets of foolscap lay in his
desk, one addressed to his teacher, and the other to his Uncle Robert. They
were both delivered with great solemnity Thursday morning. Friday, at
close of school, the teacher‘returned hers so that he might practice for reading
it at the close of the term the next week. It was marked 100 per cent.

He took it home in high glee, and proudly showed it to his uncle, whw
seemed as much pleased as he.

Uncle Robert left the following morning for New York, and before another
week rolled round Robbie was in possession of not one goat, but two, labeled
Punch and Judy.









































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































A JOLLY SLEIGH RIDE.





Such fun as Robbie had that winter! His father made him a neat little
sleigh, which would hold three or four, and after school Robbie would make up
a sleigh-load of school-girls, and with the boys in tow on their sleds behind, they
would have fine rides up and down the neighboring hills. Punch and Judy
seemed to enjoy it as muchas the boys and gir!s, and Punch especially seemed
to think he couldn’t get down the hills half fast enough, and so would go

prancing along, plowing the snow with his horns, and kicking his feet straight
out behind him, to the great danger of the dash-board.

Robbie ever thereafter wrote hisown compositions, and soon excelled in
that branch. Ido not think he even thought of asking help; if he did, he
thought of Punch and Judy, too, and immediately repented.

oa
Ghe Moll’s \Wedding.



a¢|'M ’vited to the wedding, She puts on plenty frosing
And have to make a dress; And lots of sugar plums—
I want a lot of ’lusion, I guess we'll have the ’freshments
A hundred yards, I guess— Before the min’ster comes.
I think Pll make it “princess,” : : \
I couldn’t wear it plain; i We've got to pick some dandelines
It’s very fashionable To make a chain and ring—
To have a plaited train. Louise will play the jew’s-harp,
And Mamie and I will sing;
It’s Rosa Burdock’s wedding, We'll have to say the ’sponses,
To-morrow, just at three, They couldn’t if they tried—
In Mamie Turnbull’s garden But Rosa is so el’gant
~ Under the apple-tree; She’ll make a lovely bride.
ue - ees ta ae We'll have to stand the Colonel
To show that he’s a soldier— Against a piece of board,
tv's stylish, I presume. Or maybe he can stand up
By leaning on his sword.
We made some sugar-water, Come now, this is to-morrow—
And Mamie’s got a cake; Let’s get our hats and shawls,
J never saw such good ones Bring June and Zephyrine,
As her mamma can make. And all the other dolls.

—KATE ALLYN





HAT a wonderful little creature this is! It does all its work in
the night. It builds a comfortable home right in the side of a
bank. It is exactly round, and no bigger than a quarter of a
dollar; you would say it was done with some instrument, and
so it was; but it is on its own body. Itisa sort of rake, made
of hard points, on its head. This little tunnel is then lined with
silk, and do you know why? Because dampness cannot get
through silk, and your mother’s drawing-room is not more beautifully furnished
with drapery than the mason spider’s sitting-room is. But the door is the most
curious part of it. It shuts of itself. It is about as large as a six-pence, bound
very thick, and made of thin layers of fine earth, moistened and worked together
with fine silk; attached to this little door is a silken hinge, very springy, and so







very tight that if the door is opened it springs back with a sharp snap. Even
the socket is bound with silk, and the outside covered with bits of moss, glued
on, so that no one can find it. If any one shouldattempt to open this door the
spider would hold it tightly at the bottom, at the same time clinging to the
walls of the house with main force.

All day the mason spider remains in this home. When night comes he
ventures out to spin a few threads on the grass to catch its prey. Carrying its

food into the tunnel it has a good feast.
—Mrs. G. HALL.

































TAT CIPE
=.







“Mt SS =

SRS SU =
ZS













See




rR. AND MRS. SAND-HOPPER request the pleasure of Mr. and
Mrs. Sand-screw’s company, on Thursday evening, Septem-
ber 24th. Dancing.”

That is the way the invitations were worded. Now, we
were not invited to the party, it is true, but still, as we hap-
pen to be strolling in the neighborhood, there certainly can
be no harm in our looking in for a moment, to see how the
dancers are enjoying themselves; and it will be very easy, for, as it
is a warm evening, the ball is held out of doors, on the sand-beack

here.
Dear! Dear! What a gay scene! What is it they are dancing?
‘First couple forward and back, jump over each other and turn somersault







back to places! All hands jump! Second couple right and left, three back
somersaults, and hop to places! Ladies chain! All hands hop! Right claw, left
claw, down the middle! All hands somersault back to places!”

Well! I never saw a dance like that before, did you? And everybody is
dancing: no lazy people here. There must bea thousand people. A thousand!
There must be a million!

‘“‘Hop! Hop! Skip! Skip! Right claw, left claw, down the middle!”

Don’t you wish we could be sand-hoppers, too, just for a few minutes?
That is Mr. Sand-hopper himself in the picture, the one who is just jumping
beckward so nimbly. He is dancing with his cousin, Miss Corophium,—that
lovely creature with the long, graceful, claw-like antennz. She is not quite
used to dancing on sand, for she lives in the mud at home; but still she is en-
joying herself very much. The lady in the left-hand corner is Mrs. Sand-Screw,
who is dancing back to back with Mr. Kroyler’s Sand-screw, her third cousin.
It is quite a family party, you see, for host and guests are all related to each
other.



Curious people, aren't they? The biggest cannot be more than an inch

_long. Their hard, shining shells are polished as bright as possible, and their

claws all neatly arranged. They have twelve legs, some of which they use in
walking and some in swimming; indeed, one of their family names is Amphi-
poda, which means “both kinds of feet.” Some of the ladies are carrying their
eggs with them, packed away under the fore-part of their bodies, just where the
legs are joined on. Shouldn't you think they would be afraid of dropping them?

Ah! Now they are going to supper! There is the feast, spread out on
the sand. Great heaps of delicious rotten sea-weed, and plenty of worms—
a supper fit for a king, if the king happens to be a sand-hopper. They seem
vety hungry, and no wonder, after dancing so hard!

XNhey will eat anything and everything,—these tiny creatures; if you



-were to drop your handkerchief now it would be bitten to rags in five
minutes,

The lovely Miss Corophium is beating the sand with her long feelers, to
see if there are any worms under it. Greedy creature! Can't you be content
with what is given you? But look! Whatis the matter now? Oh! Oh! How

dreadful! An enemy is com-
ing. ‘The Green Crab! The
Green Crab! Run, hop, bur-
row under ground, for your
lives!” Off they all go, hel-
ter-skelter, Hopper, Screw,
and Corophium.

The family, and as many
of the guests as they can
shelter, disappear under
ground into their tiny holes;
the rest make off wherever
they can. Have all escaped?
Alas! No! The unfortunate Kroyler’s Sand-screw has a lame leg, and cannot
go as fast as the rest. He is seized by the terrible Green Crab, the enemy of
his whole race, and gobbled up before our very eyes.

The ball is over; come away! Somehow I don’t care so muchabout being
a sand-hopper now, do you?



—Laura E, RicHARDS.













































































































@he @olls’ @hristmas Party.



Wi T was the week before Christmas, and the dolls in the toy-shop played
ey together all night. The biggest one was from Paris. .

: One night she said, “We ought to have a party before Santa
Claus carries us away to the little girls. Ican dance, and I will
show you how.” ae,

“I can dance myself if you will pull \¢
the string,” said a “Jim Crow” doll. i

“What shall we have for supper? 3
piped a little boy-doll in a Jersey suit.
He was always thinking about eating.

“Oh, dear,” cried the French lady,
“I don’t know what we shall do for
supper!”

“I can get the supper,” added a
big rag doll. The other dollshad never
liked her very well, but they thanked 4
her now. She had taken lessons at a cooking-school, and knew how to make
eake and candy. She gave French names to everything she made, and this
made it taste better. Old Mother Hubbard was there, and she said the rag
doll did not know how to cook anything. ©

They danced in one of the great'shop-windows. They opened a toy piano,
and a singing-doll played “Comin’ through the. rye.” The dolls did not find
that a good tune to dance by; but the lady did not know any other, although
she was the most costly doll in the shop. Then they wound up a music-box,










and danced by that. This did very well for some tunes; but they had to walk
ground when it played ‘Hail, Columbia,” and wait for something else.

The ‘Jim Crow” doll had to dance by himself, for he could do nothing but
a break-down.” He would not dance at all unless some one pulled his string.
A toy monkey did this; but he would not stop when the dancer was tired.

They had supper on one of the counters. Therag Wey
doll placed some boxes for tables. The supper was of ae
candy, for there was nothing in the shop to eat but sugar Bg Ke
hearts and eggs. The dolls like candy better BS
than anything else, and the supper was splen-
did. Patsy McQuirk said
he could not eat candy.
He wanted to know what
kind of a supper it was
without any potatoes.
He got very angry, put
and smoked his pipe. It
do so in com-
the little ladies
to climb into a
get out of the

Mother
two black wait-
love little pus-
in abrigand hat
wide that theg
afraidthey
clown raised
and Jack in the Box â„¢
could to look down into the fellow’s throat.

All the baby dolls in caps and long Af dresses had been put to
bed. They woke up when the others % ig -XR were at supper, and began
to cry. The big doll brought them some candy, (levy and that kept them quiet
for some time. i

The next morning a little girl found the ey toy piano open. She was
sure the dolls had been playing on it. The grown-up people thought it had
been left open the night before, but they do not understand dolls as well as
little people do.



















his hands into his pockets,
was very uncivil for him to
pany. The smoke made
‘{ sick, and they all tried
i»

“horn of plenty” to
way.
Hubbard and the
ers tried to sing “I
sy; but the tall one
opened his mouth so
small dollies were
might fall into it. The
both armsin wonder,
' sprang up as high as he

—VIOLA ROSEBOROUGH.



Ghe Story of the Qain Mrop.

/ ERE was once a poor farmer who owned a small field of corn. He:
had planted and cultivated it with great care, for it was all he could
depend upon for the support of his large family. The little blades of



corn aad come up, but the ground was parched and dry for the want of rain.
One day, as he was out in his field looking anxiously for a shower, two little:





aK
' XS t : 2

Li
Vie. S
tony fe

7 Tye = he a

Why.



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a oe

Ve MB emt eeausn '

rain drops up in the sky saw him, and one said to the other, “Look at that poor
farmer, he looks so sad and discouraged, I do wish that I could help him.”
“What would you do,” said the other; ‘you are only one little rain drop, you
could not even wet one hill of corn?” “True,” said the other, ‘but, then, I
could go and cheer him a little. I believe I'll try. So here I go,” and cere
went the little rain drop, and fell on the farmer’s nose. ‘Dear me!” said the
farmer, “I do believe we are going tohavea shower—I’m so glad!”



No sooner had the first rain drop left, than the other said, ‘Well, if you
©, I believe I'll go too.” So down came the second little rain drop and fell on
hill of corn by the farmer’s feet.

By this time another rain drop said to his companions, as they came to-
gether: ‘‘What is this I hear about going to cheer some poor farmer—that is a
good errand, I believe I'll go too.” “And I, and I, and I,” said the others. So
they all went—faster, and faster they came, till the whole field was watered,
and the corn grew and ripened, all because one little rain drop did what it could,
which encouraged many others to do the same.

Dear friends, that is just what our mission bands in the churches are try-

ing to do.

€@ Dery © Girl.

N school she ranks above her mates,
And wins the highest prizes;
She bounds correctly all the states,
And tells what each one’s size is;
In class she will not prompt a friend,
For she doesn’t believe in telling;
She heeds the rules from end to end,
And never fails in spelling.
“She’s just as odd as odd can be!”
Say all the school of Esther Lee.



She keeps her room as neat as wax,
And laughs at Peter's mockings;

She mends Priscilla’s gloves and sacques,
And darns the family stockings;

She dusts the sitting-room for Kate,

—



She cares for baby brother;

She fashions balls and kites for Nate,
And runs for tired mother,
“She’s just as odd as odd can bel”
Say all at home of Esther Lee.

For little, crippled Mary Betts
She saves her brightest pennies;

She never, never, sulks or frets
If she doesn’t beat at tennis;

With happy words she is sure to greet
Children in lowly by-ways;

She guides unsteady, aged feet
Across the bustling highways.
“She’s just as odd as odd can bel”
Say all the town of Esther Lee.





Brow the @hildren Pyelped Pay for
the f©arm.

KILDA, Bertha and Otto Karsten were three little German chil-
“io dren who, with their parents, had come from that far-off land
beyond the sea to finda home on our western prairies. They
eke. had once had a dear little home in the old country, but they had
lost it, and I will tell you how.

Their father had been a miller, and had owned the mill, to-

a gether with the house and the few acres surrounding it. Thisland
joined on every side the estate of a rich baron, and, in fact, had once beena part
of it; but it had been sold years before by the baron’s ancestors to meet some
reckless expenditure.

Now the baron had coveted these few acres for a long time, and had several
times offered to buy them; but the sum he offered was not half the value;
besides, Mr. Karsten loved his mill and his little home and did not care to part
with them. But the more the baron thought of it the more he wanted it, till
in his eyes it became worth more than all his vast possessions. He thought he
could never be happy unless he had it, and at last he determined to séeat it.

You think it would be hard-work to steal land. So it would be in this
country, where the poor have privileges as well as the rich; but in that country
might makes right, and it was an easy matter. Let me tell you how he did it.
The little stream that turned the big wheel in the mill flowed from the baron’s
land and entered it again after running through the miller’s; so this wicked man
dug a ditch around the poor miller’s farm, connecting it at both ends with the
stream, and thus drew,the water all off. Then the big wheel stopped turning
and no grists could be ground. The miller did not know what to do, for he
could get no work to make a living. Finally the little money he had saved was
gone, and he was compelled to sell his home to the baron (no one else would
care to buy it now) for whatever he pleased to give him, which was not much.

Mr. Karsten had heard of this good land of ours, and had heard that here
by patient industry the poor might win homes; so one spring found the Karsten
family on the rolling prairies. A farm was bought and partially paid for, and
a comfortable house was built.

‘Ina year or two the grassy plain was transformed into fields of rustling
corn and waving wheat, and that in turn into shining dollars, and slowly and

“u R







surely the farm became their own. ‘When the farm is paid for!” That was
the children’s idea of perfect happiness. To this end they hoarded even their
pennies, and worked like little heroes, too. Barefooted and bareheaded, clad
in their old-fashioned, home-spun clothes, they weeded the garden, cared for
the cows and sheep and fed the calves and chickens. When the other children
laughed at their odd clothes they only smiled at each other and said: “We'll
have new clothes, too, when the farm is paid far,”

At last came the long-looked-for summer when the last doliar would be
paid if all went well. But alas! the spring was so damp and cold that the corn
seed rotted in the ground, and though it was planted over and over again it
became evident that the corn crop would bea perfect failure. But how the
wheat grew!—as if it knew that eager eyes and anxious hearts were watching it
—as if it knew that joy or grief depended on its growing. The eraideee
measured by it. Now it was as tallas Otto; now it was over Bertha’s head, and
now Hilda, the eldest, could just reach the golden-turning heads by standing
on her tip-toes.

“The wheat would pay for it all if I didn’t have to hire some help to take
care of it,” said the father, “but that will cost money, and now the corn is
gone.” “QO, father,” cried Hilda, Bertha and Otto all together, “we can help
you take care of it, I’m sure we can. Do let us try.”

The father looked doubtful and shook his head, but when he saw their
eager faces cloud over and tears come into their eyes he thought again and
said: ‘Well, you may try.” They could hardly wait till it was ripe, they
were so anxious to prove that they could help; but at last the father shouldered
his cradle and went to cut it down. Then thechildren raked it up into bundles,
and very careful they were to get every scattered stalk. Then the mother left
the house to care for itself, and came out with them and bound the bundles
tight with wisps of straw. The children learned how, too, but they could bind
only the small ones.

But they could set the bundles all on end in great shocks, though, and
thought it fun.- They called it building houses. Once it rained when they were
far from home, alone, in a distant corner of the field. Then they built a larger
house than usual and crawled inside. It thundered and lightened, too, but
they were not afraid. The shower was soon over, so that Bertha, holding out
her hand, could scarcely feel a falling drop. Then they crept from their safe
retreat and soon were at work again as merrily as ever.

Finally it was all cut and bound and set up. Now it must be stored in the
barn. Again the father shook his head, but again they all cried: “We can
do it. Try us, father.” They were not afraid to work, you see. When the



~gzat wagon was driven to the field Otto held the lines and drove from shock te
hock, while Hilda and Bertha laid the great bundles, as large as themselves,
venly, side by side, as fast as the father could toss them up. As proud as
gings and queens in a royal chariot, they rode on the loaded wagon to the barn,
and there they packed the grain in so tight that when the threshers came to
thresh they asked the father what man he had that packed the bundles so.
How they stared when they were told, and how the children laughed!
But they laughed a great many times that winter, when, clustered around
the fire ina home now all their very own, they would recount their summer's

work, and tell how they, too. had helped pay for the farm. oe

DV ZA


farmers’ @irls.



rat P in the early morning,

an eN Pi Just at the peep of day,
Straining the milk in the dairy,

C Turning the cows away;

Sweeping the floor in the kitchen,
Making the beds up-stairs.

Washing the breakfast dishes,

Dusting the parlor chairs.



Brushing the crumbs from the pantry,
Hunting for eggs in the barn,
Roasting the meat for dinner,
Spinning the stocking yarn;
Spreading the snow-white linen
Down on the bushes below,
Ransacking every meadow
Where the wild strawberries grow.

Starching their “‘fixin’s” for Sunday,
Churning their golden cream,

Rinsing the pails and strainer
Down in the running stream,

Feeding the geese and poultry, ©
Making puddings and pies,

Jogging the little one’s cradle,
Driving away the flies.

Grace in every motion,
Music in every tone;
Beauty in form and feature,
Thousands might covet to own,
Cheeks that rival the roses,
Teeth the whiteness of pearls,
One of these country maids is wortk
A score of your city girls.

—CHARLES K. SHETERLY,





akg f©orest GFrees.--Ghe \Willowe.

Sg HE next summer Joe and Charlie made Grandfather Green
another visit, and remembering the interesting stories he had
told them of forest trees, they were anxious to gather further
information upon the same subject. So, before they had fairly
gotten rested from their trip, Charlie said:

‘Now, grandpa, we want to learn more about trees while we are here
this summer; and, while we have been reading a great deal about different
kinds of trees, Joe and I both think you can tell us a great many things we
‘cannot get out of books.”

“Very well,” said grandfather, “I should be only too glad to help you gain
‘useful information. Let us go down to the river fishing to-morrow and while
there we can, perhaps, learn something of trees that grow in the low-
dands.”

The boys were delighted, not only at the idea of learning more about
‘trees, but at the prospect of going fishing as well, for what boy is not fond of
this sport? The next morning bright and early the boys were up and searched
the premises for fishing tackle. Grandfather had provided for that, however,
-and told them if they would only get the worms for bait he would find fishing
rods, hooks and lines. It took the boys but a little while to gather a sufficient
‘supply of bait for the day, and then, with a lunch basket that grandma in-
sisted they should take with them, they started. While on the road their grand-
father told them many stories of forest trees and forest life, but said, as some
large willow trees were found upon the river bank, he had concluded to tell
‘them about them. On reaching the river the boys found the willows as grand-
father had said and their interest was much aroused. Before beginning
the sport of the day the boys wanted to hear about the willow trees, .),
ying down in the shade of one of the trees, they prepared themselves to
listen.

Grandfather said: “The allow trees that you see around us here, boys,
‘are some of the largest that can be found anywhere. As a rule the willow does
not grow very large. It separates into many branches a few feet from the
‘ground and spreads out as you see around us. The branches are very slender.
The leaves are so thick and so heavy that the limbs all bend downward as you
‘see. The tree affords as dense a shade as any other. Willows are found
almost wholly in low-lands. There are quite a number of different kinds, as
you know. The lumber from the tree has but little commercial value. _ The








tree branches so near the ground that logs of any length cannot. be obtained
from it , Willow is used, however, for quite anumber of purposes. The trunk
and larger limbs of the tree are worked into base ball and cricket bats, but I
presume you boys know more about these things than I do. When we used to
play ball and cricket when I was a boy we did not do it with machine-made
bats and balls which you use to-day. The willow is valuable for this purpose
because it is light and strong. The tree and branches are cut into proper
lengths and split and each strip is cut by a lathe.

“The Indians used to weave baskets out of willow twigs and some of them
are very beautiful indeed. The twigs after being cut and dried are plaited
together. You will, perhaps, find in your own home a number of baskets of
different shapes and sizes made from these willow twigs. The twigs are very
pliable; that is, they will bend without breaking, which makes them especially

‘useful for this purpose. The willow is used in making chairs and rockers of
various kinds. The willow is also used in making fences. I can show you a
willow or hedge fence in the lower pasture if you wish. Only a few years ago
I wanted a fence there and I had the men gather a lot of willow cuttings; we
went down there one day in early summer, and stuck these willow slips into the
ground a few inches apart, and as a result there is a fence there to-day which
stock cannot easily get through. You will find a great many of these hedge
fences throughout the country, especially in low-lands. Willow trees make a
very good fuel when dry; it is, however, too light to burn very long, but it
makes a hot, quick fire and your grandmother thinks it is the best wood we get
here for summer use. I think that is about all I can tell you about willows.
Now, boys, if we are going to do any fishing, it is time we should
begin.”

“Well,” said Joe, “I never thought there was so much to learn about trees.
I believe I would like to live here on the farm with you all summer, grandpa,
and do nothing but study trees.”

“JT may say, I should like to have you with me, boys,” said grandpa, ‘and
if you will only stay with me until fall I think you will go back to your city
home regular little foresters, but we must not waitany longer. Get your tackle
teady and we will see if there are any fish in this stream.”





;
!



@A Prave Cittle Girl.

K@ GREAT many years ago, about the year eighteen hundred’
ne when some of the eastern states were considered as being
A quite far West, there nestled at the foot of one of the Green
Z7M\4iv Mountain ranges in Vermont the little country village of
Farmington. Close around it clustered a number of farm
dwellings, surrounded by their fields of tilled land, but for
seo the most part it was comparatively a new country, and the settle-
~{ *¢ ments few and far between. By climbing a short distance up the moun-

tain slope, however, one could see a few scattered farm-houses here and
there in the distance; and the frequent breaks in the trees that stood in bold
relief against the horizon showed where the woodman’s ax had been busy
opening up a new road through the forest, hewing out timbers for a cabin, or
cleaning a patch of ground for the Indian corn.

In one of the farthest of these cabins lived Edward Solis and his family,
consisting of a wife and three children. The eldest, Jennie, was but eleven
years of age, while Helen had just seen her fifth birthday, and the youngest
was a baby of a year or soold. The family had but lately moved there from
Connecticut, and had hardly got settled in their new home as the spring
opened.

One day in early summer Mr. Solis found he must go to a neighboring
town at some distance to obtain some farm appliances which he could not get
at the village. The journey would take him several days from home, as the
roads wererendered almost impassable from an exceedingly heavy rain, so, bid-
ding adieu to his family, he started early on the following morning.

The day passed as usual with the family, but at night it was observed that
the baby, who had during the day crept out unseen, and had been found pad-
dling in the water, had taken a severe cold and was flushed with fever. The
fever increased sorapidly during the night, and baffling all Mrs. Solis’s simple
remedies and skill, by morning she determined to summon to her aid the vil-
lage doctor.

But whom should she send? There seemed to be but one messenger—
Jennie, and she had scarcely been beyond their little clearing. But the nearest
neighbor was nearly as distant as the village, and to be reached only by a nar-
row path through a dense forest; so the safer and more expeditious plan
seemed to be to take the newly-cut wagon road to town. Jennie was very
timid about the journey, and begged very hard that her little sister might be










SS
RSS

SONS
RSS











































































































































JENNIE’S CROSSING.





































































































































































































































ANY
AN









































































































































































































































































































allowed to go with her for company, and Helen, childlike, was even more eager:
so after many injunctions as to directions and carefulness, and being bid to
walk as fast as they could, the children set out. Collie, their pet shepherd dog,
went with them, and Jennie carried a well-filled lunch basket on her arm, which
her mother had given her, telling them that, after sending the doctor on, they
might take their time coming home. In those days doctors rode on horseback
instead of in gigs, and the children would have to return as they went.

The distance to the village was about three miles. Between them, about
a mile from town, flowed a creek, which higher up stream, touched the opposite
side of the town. At this point was a bridge, but to reach it the Solis’s would
have to go two miles out of their way. Their usual crossing place was ata
shallow ford, where stepping-stones had been laid from either bank. This was
generally a safe means of crossing, for a dam above the town confined the sur-
plus water, and the creek was never very deep.

Jennie and Helen, with Collie leading the way—he had been over the road
many times—reached the creek without stopping to rest. Carefully pick-
ing their way over the white stepping-stones, they seated themselves on the
opposite bank, laughing to see Collie slip off one of the large stones as he tried
to get adrink without wetting his toes. But Collie looked none the worse for
his wetting, for he soon shook himself dry, and the girls bathed their warm
faces and tired feet. Then they hurried on.

After reaching town they easily found the doctor by inquiry; but he was
just starting out to answer an urgent call at some distance, and said he could
not be back again before night. He read Mrs.-Solis’s note, however, which
Jennie produced from her basket, and said he would put up some medicine
which he thought, if the directions were carried out, would be all that was
needed, and he would call at night on his way back. ;

There was no help for it, so Jennie turned slowly away; and now they
must walk back with the precious medicine even faster than they came. Try-
ing her best to encourage little Helen, who was almost in tears, and whose
weary feet lagged sadly, she hurried on her way. A nameless dread had also
seized her. As she had passed through the door of the doctor's office, she had
heard a man remark to him when he spoke of returning that night, “You'd
better not try that till morning, Doctor. This last heavy rain has broken out
that weak spot in the dam, and if the water keeps tumbling down the moun-
tain as it has been doing, there’s no telling where the bridge will be by night.”

Poor Jennie! “Ifthe dam is gone, how will we get across the creek,” she
thought, ‘and what will mother think, and then perhaps Willie will die if I
don’t get the medicine there before the doctor comes.” Faint with fear she sat



ona log by the roadside, as much to steady her trembling knees as to rest
Helen. Taking the lunch from the basket, she divided it between Helen and
Collie, bidding the former eat her share as quickly as possible. The latter
needed no such bidding, and soon they were again on their way.

Taking Helen by the hand, she hurried her at the top of her speed, answer-
ing her wondering look with a gentle reminder that they must get the medicine
to brother Willie as quickly as they could, that he might get well. It would do
her no good to tell her of the rising water, Jennie wisely thought, she would not
understand, would only be frightened, and might hinder getting her across.

With pale cheeks and trembling steps, she hurried forward, and at last
came in sight of the creek. Her worst fears were realized; the stepping-stones,
were completely submerged by dark, troubled waters, on whose surface floated
here and there bits of broken timber, telling too well the work of destruction
above. But now that she at last stood in the presence of the dreaded danger
Jennie instantly grew brave. “Helen,” said she, quite calmly, “see how the rain
has filled the creek. I don’t believe you can find the stones, but we'll play
‘horse,’ and sister will carry you over on her back. It will belots of fun. Get
on this stone, and put your arms as tight as you can around my neck.”

Helen, who had been gazing rather doubtfully at the water, seeing Jennie
made but play of the matter, was immediately re-assured, and instantly com-
plied with the conditions for a little “fun.” Jennie’s new-found courage never
failed her. Slipping the basket over her arm, she clasped her hands tightly
behind her, over Helen’s chubby bare legs; but how could she find the stepping-
stones? Here Collie came to her aid. With an instinct almost human, he
seemed to take in the situation at a glance. Wagging his tail, he stepped out
on the first stone, and looked knowingly back as if tosay, “It’s all right. Come
on.

From stone to stone he guided her, never attempting to swim his way
along; and the emergency made Jennie sure-footed, while Helen was quite
boisterous in her glee. In safety they reached the opposite bank, and scarcely
had they done so, when a dull report was heard far up stream; the whole dam
had given away, and soon the pent-up waters would engulf the low banks of the
creek.

Jennie recognized the sound and understood its meaning, and nothing
but the thoughts of her sick brother, and the needed medicine, supported her
the remainder of the distance. When at last they reached the open cabin
door, she fell fainting on the floor, and only Helen was left to tell the story of
how ‘“‘me and Jennie played horse.”

When the doctor reached there, late in the night, he found two patients



instead of one, but left both at daybreak doing well. Before the next night
Jennie was quite a little heroine in the village, as the story of her bravery be-
came noised around through the kind-hearted doctor, and the village paper
stated that “Mistress Jennie Solis was the bravest little maid in the sixteen



}
i
it
7

states.”

It was not long erea bridge spanned the stream over the stepping-stones,
and now an iron structure does duty at the identical point; but from that day
to this the place has been known as “‘Jennie’s Crossing.”

Ve
Siw 90 wy
~~ Se
—~!~A m7
“al Neo TOS

Qittle Eolden Head.

(AY LITTLE GOLDEN HEAD
lived within a town

Full of busy bobolinks fitting up
and down;



Pretty neighbor buttercups, cosy auntie
clovers,

And shy groups of daisies all whispering like
lovers.

A town that was builded on the border of a
stream

By the loving hands of Nature when she
woke from winter’s dream;

Sunbeam for the workingmen, taking turn
with shower,

Rearing fairy houses of nodding grass and
flower.

Crowds of noisy bumble-bees rushing up and
down,

Wily little brokers of that busy little town,

Bearing bags of gold dust, always in a hurry,

Fussy bits of gentlemen, full of fret and
flurry.

Gay little Golden Head fair and fairer grew,

Fed on flecks of sunshine and sips of balmy
dew,

Swinging on her slender foot all the happy
day,

Chattering with bobolinks, gossips of the
May.

Underneath her lattice on starry summer
eves

By aad by a lover came, with his harp of
leaves;

Wooed and won the maiden, tender, sweet
and shy,

For a little cloud home he was building in
the sky.

And one busy morning on his steed of might
He bore his little Golden Head out of mortal
sight,

. But still her gentle spirit, a puff of airy

down,

Wandered through the mazes of that busy
little town.















































































































































@n Gast |ndian Hyome.

ET your map and perhaps you can find the island of New

Guinea. Ah, here itis, lying near the equator and extending

several hundred miles south of that. This island is worth our

study. Itis about four times as large as the six New England

states. Of course, no frost is known in that region—the trees

are always green, the flowers always blooming. Here we find

the banana, the palm, the cocoanut and fruits in abundance. Our picture

shows the banana tree in front and a couple of cocoanut trees in the rear.
These trees usually surround the homes of the East India man. They are
chosen not for ornament and shade but for their fruit. These fruits are not the t

most abundant and cheapest in the island, yet almost any other could be gotten

along without much better than they.
The banana is to the East India people what bread is to the Americana



The cocoanut not only furnishes them food but its oil is used for light and a
cooling, pleasant drink is also obtained from it. The houses in that part of the
world are very much alike. The poorer class—and those include nearly all the
people —build entirely with bamboo and roof with palm leaves, No sound of
hammer is heard in building these houses; a saw and hatchet is all that is
needed. The saw cuts the poles intoa required length. The hatchet splits
and dresses those that are to be used for siding and floor. The posts are set
firmly in the grounda few feet apart and some eight feet above the surface.
The first and only floor is laid a few feet above the ground; the rafters are set
at a moderate pitch. The poles and slats are tied together when necessary.
The palm leaf shingles that are then put upon them are fastened in the same
way. The leaves which are used for this purpose are from the mangrove; they
are long and narrow and while green are bent over a stick about three feet long,
so as to lie in courses. One of these leaf roofs, when laid well, will last from
eight to ten years without leaking. The houses have no windows. Upon one
side is a door that can be opened and shut at pleasure; this door is’ made of
basket work and serves to let in the light. The lower story of the house is
never enclosed. This is, they say, due toa fear of the overflow of rivers, the
fear of wild beasts and serpents and also the thought that sickness results from
living and sleeping onthe ground. It would seem that this mode of building is
rather a habit than anything else, as in every locality, even where there is no
danger of overflow from water or where are no serpents or wild beasts, the houses
are built inthe same way. If anativeis asked why the houses are built so high,
the usual answer is, ‘(Our houses are frail and we build high to keep away from
robbers.” The door is reached by a light narrow ladder, which by night is
drawn up, and with the door tied the natives feel quite secure. No fire is ever
built in one of these dwellings; the cooking is done outside. The furniture is
very meagre indeed; it seldom exceeds two or three grass mats, a couple of rush
pillows, a rice pot and frying pan of earthenware, a betel box and a spittoon.
The cost of these houses is not very great. They seldom exceed $12 or $15,
and one native reported to his employer, after an absence of four days, ‘‘that
he had married a wife and built and furnished a house, all at an expense of $6.00.”
Not all the people of New Guinea are fortunate enough to have houses. Thou-
‘sands live, year in and year out, without a roof of their own to give them shelter,
with only the ground for their bed and the sky for covering. Nature has pro-
vided so abundantly for these people that they are but little disposed to provide
‘for themselves.



























































































































































P\iving the Hees.

HE bees have swarmed,” said Hal, as he rushed into the
kitchen where his mother was at work.
“What shall we do? Your father will not be at
home for several hours,” said the mother.
‘Do! Why, I can hive ehent, said) Hale 16
watched papa hive the other swarm.”
“Do!” said the house-maid, before Hal had finished—“T’'ll tell you what to





‘do! Drum on pans and pails. Make all the noise you can, so. they will alight.
That’s the way Carrie Barnes did when her bees swarmed. Her mother and
all the rest drummed on tin pans.”

Hal went to the barn for a new hive, and the children got pans and pails
and went to drumming with sticks. The house-maid got an old stove-pipe and
laid it across a broken cart-wheel and she drummed, making more noise than
all the rest.

“Oh, what a racket!” said Hal, as he dusted the hive and wet the inside
with sweetened water. ;

What the bees thought of the noise I do not know, but they soon began to
settle upon a raspberry-bush. I really think they went there because their
queen led them, but the house-maid thought it was because of the noise they
made.

While the children saw that the dark bunch grew larger and larger on the
raspberry-bush Hal put his father’s bee-veil over his hat, buttoned his coat te
the chin over it, and then drew on long gauntlet gloves.

“Now I’m ready for the bees,” said Hal.

“J wish I had a veil,” said Ruby.

“I'm going to crawl into this gunny-sack,” said little Ned, ‘and look
through the holes.”

Then all the little children pulled gunny-sacks over their heads, arms and
hands, and ran up close to the bees while Hal was hiving them.

Hal worked very gently. He pried up the bush. Taking hold of the top
of it with one hand he put the other hand under the roots and lifted the whole
mass of bees over the hive. He gave it a quick shake, which dropped the most
ef them into the hive.

With great care and delicate touches he brushed the bees away from the
edge of the hive and replaced the cover.

“I don’t believe I have killed three bees,” said Hal, delighted with his
success, ‘‘I believe we should have lost that swarm if it had not been for you,
Hal,” added his mother.

‘You mean if we hadn’t drummed on the pans,” cried the house-maid.

When Hal’s father came his boy tried to look sober as he said: “Papa,
the bees swarmed two hours ago!”

His father looked at him a minute, adding: “And you have hived them?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hal, with sparkling eyes.

“You have done a good thing,” replied his father, proudly.

His father gave him that hive of bees, from which he has raised many
others.

—Mrs. 0. HowarD.



H, see that pretty moss!
7 S| It is like a star!”

ie It was clinging to a
= rock by the sea-shore.
It was not moss, but an animal.

“It is a sea-star, Nellie, or a
star-fish, as some people call it.
Take it in your hand. You will
not be hurt.”

‘Why, Uncle John, he is all
legs. Where are his eyes and
nose?”

“The sea-star has neither eyes, nose, nor ears, Nellie. @ .
In fact he has no head at all. Those little feelers on what

you call his legs are really all the legs and arms he has.
His mouth and stomach are all the same.”
“Oh, how funny!”

“Yes, he is a curious animal. When he has finished one meal some of
those little arms sweep his stomach clean, and then he is ready for another.”

“And what does he have to eat?”

“Well, Miss Nellie, he is as fond of oysters as you are. Though he seems
so feeble, the strongest shell-fish cannot escape him. He sends a poisonous
Juice through the valves of the oyster, which makes him oven his shell. Then
the sea-star has a fine feast!”

“The wicked creature!”

“Yes, the oyster fishermen are no friends of the star-fish. But he makes
& pretty ornament when dried. Do you want to take him home?”

“I am afraid of being poisoned.”

“I will tell you what to do. Place him in this little wooden box. I will
bore some holes in it. Then put him down over an ant’s nest. They will
frepare him nicely for you. His poison does not harm the ants. Perhaps
there are ant doctors who cure them.”

a
Ne






























































—KHAM.





EJuliette.

{D you ever own a nice horse who was full of fun and mischief
and whose eye seemed to have a laugh in it? Let me tell you
about such a one. She was as black as jet; she had a
white star in her face, and a white stocking on her left hind
foot. She was round and plump and very quick in her motions.
She could trot, rack, pace and run, and under the saddle was a
charmer. Her name was Juliette. Asa colt she took the lead
in mischief. ni

She could untie a bow-knot even when the end of the strap
was put through the bow and drawn up tightly. But she was not so foolish as
to do this when there was no occasion. But omit feeding her when the other





























































































































































































































































horses were fed, and then step out of the barn for a few moments; suddenly
return, and she would be found untied and in a stall with another horse, helping
herself to his grain. She had three associates, whom she led into mischief in
the night. She would open the barn-door, which was fastened with a hook and
Staple; open the barn-yard gate by drawing out the pin that held it. She



would let down the bars with her teeth, and lead her three trusting companions
into the grain field. There they would be found in the morning, while she had
returned to the barn before the boys were up. She had such an innocent look
when she had been on these excursions that it would call forth one’s admira-
tion. When I rode her to bring back the colts she seemed to know what we
were after. She would go quite direct to where those wicked colts could be
found, and we would chase them home in a hurry.

One night a mysterious noise was heard at the barn. Horse-thieves were
not unknown, and, as we had the best horses in the neighborhood, great anxiety
was felt. Father drew himself softly out of his warm bed. Revolver in hand,
he went carefully and quietly out of the house, followed by a courageous bull-
dog.

You can imagine his astonishment when, instead of finding horse-thieves,
he found Juliette standing with the raised pump-handle in her mouth trying to.
pump water, while the three colts, with unbounded confidence in her ability,,

stood at the trough watching her with expectant eyes.
—CHILION B. ALLEN.
ee
4 Vv

A SeenON a A

Ghe Putting.



WHESTNUTS are ripe— Chestnuts are ripe—
Are ripe, and now from the prickly | Are ripe, and now when berries are few
burr The brown nuts fall,
The brown nuts fall, And here,
And bound _ With a cheer,
To the ground From far and near,
With a twinkling sound, In the sparkling sun the boys appear
Where the woodlawn folk are camped around, At the end of the pasture wall;
At the end of the pasture wall, Bitten with brambles, washed in dew,
With tonguesthat chatter and wings that whir, Ruddy and brown, a barefoot crew,
Birds in feathers and hearts in fur— Each with his sack
Squirrel and jay, Like a peddler’s pack,
And chipmunk gay— They climb, and shake, and cudgel, and
They scrape, and scamper, and scoldand play. thwack,
While the little white worm in the midst of | But the little white worm in the midst of the
the storm ~ storm

Grows fat on his diet and laughs at themall. Feasts on the kernel and laughs at them all,



@ Pew [Lind of fEun.

PAHERE was a great racket out in the back-yard, cries of distress,
i shouts of merriment and loud laughter. Mrs. Harley rushed to the
=° window in time to see Joe rolling on the ground, kicking his heels in
the air and fairly roaring with delight, while Bennie, the picture of
mortal terror, was running toward the house as if all the witches were
after him.

“Why, my poor little mouse, what does this mean?” was mamma's aston-
ished inquiry to the funny object that appeared on the threshold a moment later.

“It means, mamma,” Bennie gasped, as he bent a dripping, yellow head
forward and stuck out his arms akimbo,
“means—that—I’m almost drowned,”
and a righteous stream of indignant
tears joined the others that were run-
ning to the ground.

“Drowned! Where could you
drown, dear?” and mamma’s alarm
took flight in a hearty laugh.

“It isn’t anything to laugh at.
oe did it!” while sobs and groans fol-
lowed at the recollection of his wrongs.

“Tell Joe to come here.”

“Now that sounds like business,”
thought Bennie, and, wiping his eyes
with alacrity, he started on his pleasant
a errand.

“JOB PUNISHED.” “Here he is, mamma,” was the
triumphant announcement, as he shortly reappeared in the doorwav. holding
his elder brother by the arm.

“My son, what have you been doing to your little brother?” but Joe only
hung his head. “Tell me instantly; what have you been doing, I say?”

“Why—I was—only having a little fun, that was all.” The voice was very
meek indeed for Joe.

“Having a little fun? You may tell me what you call fun, if you please.”

“Well, it wasn’t anything, only the cow’s water-pail was standing out in the
yard, and Bennie came and stuck his head in to take a drink, and







I only stepped up behind him and gave him a little dip, that was all,” and Joe
looked up into the stern face inquiringly.

“Tt wasn’t all; he pushed me clear to the bottom of the pail,” objected
Bennie, indignantly.

“Tf I can’t have a little fun I think it is a pretty thing,” sulked Joe.

“It seems to me you have had a good deal of fun lately,” said his mother,
gravely. “It is quite time for me to have mine now. Come into the kitchen.”

Joe humbly obeyed, wondering what his mother could mean, and Bennie
followed, determined to miss nothing.

“Fill that wash-dish full of water.” Matters began to look a little serious.
‘Now I want to see how you enjoy the kind of fun you are continually having
with others,” and Mrs. Harley, as she spoke, plunged Joe’s head once, twice,
three times into the water, giving itso generous a “dip” each time that even
Bennie could ask for no more.

“Now, Joe, how do you like the ‘fun’?” asked his mother quietly, standing
off a few steps and looking at him fixedly.

“J wouldn't have minded it,” gasped Joe, “if you had ducked me only once,
but it seems to me that three times running is a good deal.”

“] intended it should be,” replied his mother, with decision. “I was set-
tling up a little back pz that was due you. I have discovered that your fun is
always at the expense of some one else. Do you remember the fun you had at

your sister’s lawn party last summer, when you turned the hose on her new
white dress and spoiled all her pleasure? Then when you were sent into the
house, do you remember how you amused yourself by stretching a string across
the hall and seeing how many persons would trip over it? You enjoy chasing
your little brother with the poker, and occasionally giving him a ‘dip,’ as you
call it.”

“OQ mamma, don’t tell any more things. I can’t bear to have you speak to
me in that way. It doesn’t seem one bit like you,” and poor Joe hid his burning
face in his hands and began to sob in good earnest.

“JT do not believe you have realized how cruel these sports of yours are at
times, nor how this selfish habit is growing upon you,” said his mother, sooth-
ingly, as she stroked his bowed head. _

“T never will do so again, never,” came back in smothered tones. “Oh, I
never knew how mean I was before; indeed I didn’t!”

Bennie, quite satisfied by this time with the justice meted out to the
culprit, drew near, and, thrusting his little hands into his pockets, concluded
the scene by saying, with a lofty air: ‘Boy, I'll forgive you this time, but

femember you might have drowned me!”
—JuLia H. THAYER



@he Best \May.

OW hot the July sun poured down! ‘Will rested on his hoe
% handle, and drew his sleeve across his face to wipe off the mois-
ms ture. Such a lot of potatoes to hoe! He looked back at the
rows he had hoed, and then over at what there was still to hoe.
A sullen look crept into his face, but he worked on. At the end
9 of the long row he halted and, flinging the hoe in the furrow, sat
down in the shade of the tall corn that was nodding its tassels in the fitful
breeze.

“‘T don’t believe there ever was a boy that had such hard times as I do,”
he muttered to himself. ‘It’s just work, work, work, work, from morning till
night. I’m sick of it,” and Will pushed back his hat and leaned against the
old basket to think it over, and build castles about what he meant to do by
and by. When he grew to bea man, he wouldn't work on a farm all day; he
would live in a fine house like Mr. Brown’s, with a' great spreading lawn and
tall shade trees in front; he knew just how it looked, for he went by there
almost every time on his way to town. Once he had seen a little boy just his
own size out inthe yard, reading in a book, and how he wished he could change
places with him. He would havea span of gray ponies, too, such as he had seen
Mr. Brown driving out of the great gate. So he went on planning and thinking,
till the minutes crept into half an hour—a whole hour—or more. Suddenly
Will was startled at a rustle near him in the corn, and springing up, he saw
Uncle Esek looking at him with a peculiar twinkle in his eyes.

Uncle Esek was no real relation to Will. He was an old, weatherbeaten
man who lived in a little log house a mile up the road from Will’s home. He
was shrewd and keen, and by his kindly words, spoken at just the aa moment,
he often helped many a perplexed boy out of his troubles.

“Well, what is it?” said Uncle Esek, glancing down at the hoe and then
at Will’s flushed face, from which the discontented look had not yet faded
away.

Will looked as if ke would rather not tell, not feeling sure what answer
Uncle Esek would give him; but at last he said: “Don’t you think it’s mean to
make a boy work all the while, anyhow? When I get to be a man, I shan’t do
anything I don’t want to,” and he looked up rather defiantly; then he told what
he had been planning.

“Well,” said Uncle Esek in his slow, quiet way, “I can remember when





Mr. Brown was a little boy lixe you, and didn’t live in half as good a house ag
yours. He haa to work justas hard as you do, too.”

Wil looked surprised.

“Yes,” continued the old man, ‘he worked just as hard; but he didn’t fret
aber* it, and stop to build castles in the air when he ought to have been at
work. ‘The hand of the diligent maketh rich, the good Book says, and [
think you will find this true. And there is another verse: ‘Seest thou a man
diligent in his business, he shall stand before kings, he shall not stand before
mean men.”

“But Mr. Brown don’t ‘stand before kings,” urged Will.

“No,” said Uncle Esek, “but everybody respects him and values his good
opinion.”

Will picked up his hoe thoughtfully, while Uncle Esek continued: “Every-
thing in this world worth the having costs something. We always have to pay
all that a thing is worth before we getit. If we want money we must work for
it; if we want to be wise, we must study hard and think a great deal; if we
want to have an easy time when we are old we must work for it when we are
boys.”

“Maybe that’s so,” said Will. ‘“Inever thought of it before. But anyhow
you can fix it, I don’t like to hoe potatoes, though I suppose it will have to be
done,” and he moved slowly toward his unfinished work.

“That’s right,” said the old man, looking after him; “do the things that are
waiting right at hand to be done. And after all, my boy, it doesn’t make so
much difference what we work at, though it is a great deal pleasanter to do
what we enjoy; butitis the way in which we do the work that makes men of

»

us.
Se

a

(©ove One Another.

: T was Saturday night, and two child- “But ‘one another,’ I don’t see who
y



oa ren small Is meant by ‘another’—now, May, do you?”
is) Sat on the stairs in a lighted hall,
¢oe8 Vexed and troubled and sore per-
plexed
To learn the Sunday’s forgotten text;
Only three words ona gilded card,
But both children declared it hard.

Very grandly she raised her head,

Our thoughtful darling, and slowiy said,
As she fondly smiled on the little brother:
‘Why, I am one, and you are another,

And this is the meaning—don’t you seer—
That I must. love you, and you must love me.’

“ ‘Love,’ that is easy—it means, why, this’— | Wise little preacher, could any sage
{A warm embrace and a loving kiss); Interpret better the sacred page?



Poing Wrong |P\akes Baby Grouble.

T was long after supper time.

Iam sure of this, because Hannah

had cleared off the table, and gone into the kitchen to write a let-



ter home to Sweden; and there was no one in the dining-room ex-
cepting a mouse that was lazily picking up crumbs the baby had
dropped. Besides all this, I know in another way, too; for the

baby was fast asleep in his bed up-stairs.
It is perfectly ridiculous for me to call him the baby, because he was really
a big boy half-past five years old, but everybody called him that, so I must, I

suppose.

Mamma came into the hall, and what do you suppose she saw there the



very firstthing? Itwas nothing more or
less than a big iron engine, with ared
smokestack, and only three wheels. It
must have had four wheels at first, but
now it just got along the best way it
could on three. Now, that engine did
not belong to baby at all; andmamma
guessed just right when she suspected
that her boy had taken it that very
afternoon when he was over playing
with Jim Boggs. I tell you what
mamma did not like that at all, so
she started up-stairs with all her
might.
“Baby!”

But nothing stirred under the bed-clothes.

“ Ba-by!”

SO mp

“ Are you awake?”
“Perhaps so; to-morrow.”
“No, now.”

By this time he was sitting up in bed, trying to rub his eyes open with his

eight fingers and two thumbs.

Mamma was standing there with the candle, and looking just as savage as
that particular mamma could possibly look.
“ Baby, whose engine is that down-stairs?”

6 x



“You mean, mamma, the one with the red smokestack, and only three
legs?”

“Yes,” said mamma, ‘“‘that’s the very one.”

“Well, then,” replied the baby, as he settled down into bed again, “that
b’longs to Jim.”

‘Did he say you could have it?”

The baby thought for quite a long time, and then said: ‘‘Seems to me he
didn’t; I expect I just took it.”

“Come,” said mamma, putting down the candle, ‘“‘you must get right up
and take it back.”

«But I haven't got any clothes on,” said the baby.

“No difference,” said mamma, “you can dress, and I'll stay here to button
your shoes.”

“Oh, dear!”

But he had to do it, I can tell you; and, when he came down-stairs, there
was the engine quite ready to be taken home.

“Have I got to go all alone?” And the little boy opened the front door,
and looked out. The lights were burning in the streets, but, phew! wasn’t it
dark between them?

‘I tell you what,” said mamma as her cold, stony heart softened a little at
last, “I'll stay here by the window, and perhaps you can see all the way over.”
Well, and so—Oh, yes, then the baby clattered down the front steps; and,
after running straight into the big lilac bush at the corner of the house, and
almost going head-first over the big stone down in the driveway, he looked
around, and there was mamma, sure enough, standing and waving good-by.

“Pretty tough!” said baby to himself; but he tramped on over the hill, and
down to the fence that ran across Jim’s back yard. He crawled through, and
went on tiptoe up the steps to the door.

“ Guess I'll just leave it and run home,” Baits little boy to himself, but
he looked across and there was mamma still standing in the window.

“No, I guess I wont,” he said; and so he rang the bell. The minute the
girl opened the door, he heard Jim crying almost like mad, way up-stairs.
“Here’s Jim’s engine, and I stold it; and I guess he’s crying for that, and I’m
sorry, and I’m going home—’

And the next thing they saw was a little boy scurrying across the back-
yard, through the fence, and over the hill. And I tell you another thing, too—
that little chap did not stop till he was safe in his mamma’sarmsagain. ‘This
makes two times that I’m gone to bed in only one night,” said the baby. “And,

mamma, I’m sorry ‘bout that engine.”



“That’s all right now, my little man, and I don’t believe all this will hap-
pen again.”

‘Well, I rather spect not.”

So mamma leaned over and kissed him softly, for she saw his eyes were
almost shut up tight.

“Had only three legs, anyway,” said the baby, as he tucked the clothes
close up under his chin, and so fell asleep.

@Josie’s @rouble.

: dressing. He didn’t care to go just then, so he rushed out of
the house ina bad temper. After getting the bottle he was re-
turning in the same ugly fashion, not looking at all where he was
going. He happened to come toa slippery part of the pave-
ment, and down he fell, dropping the bottle onthe ground. Of
course it broke, and the contents splashed all over his face, his
_ hands and his clothes. In terror he flew home, and ran scream-
ing to his mother. Seeing that he was about to throw himself on her lap, she
cried out in alarm: ‘“‘Don’t come near me.”

Mrs. Brown was making a new silk dress, and she naturally objected to it
being soiled by shoe-dressing.

Then Josie screamed all the more, and his two little brothers, who were
present, thinking that their mother was frightened, began to scream too. This
woke the baby, who joined in the dismal chorus.

The sound was heard in the street, and some foolish people quickly gave
an alarm of fire. In a veryshort time engines were in front of the house.
This made such an uproar that Mrs. Brown wondered for a moment what it all
meant. When she did understand it herself she found it difficult to make
every body else understand what had happened. Then she found it still more
difficult to quiet*her three frightened little children.

Don’t you think that was a great deal of trouble for one boy to cause his
dear mamma? Josie thought so when he was calm enough to think at all, and
I believe he tries to be more careful now when he is sent to the store.

—S, JENNIE SMiget





Ghe @eveeland [ail.

oz)

fOW many of our little readers who find the mail delivered at
their door every morning, or can get it by simply calling at
the post-office, ever think of the way in which letters and
papers were carried across the continent before railroads were
built there ?Up to the year 1867 the only means of carrying
mail from the Mississippi River to the coast was by means
of coaches, or horsemen. The stage coaches of those days were very
largeand strong, as they needed to be to stand the rough usage which
they received. They were drawn by six horses and traveled at a rapid
rate; about every fifteen miles were relays—as they were termed—
that is, horses were kept at these points, and when the coach dashed
up with its six foaming steeds, fresh horses were attached, and the
coach went on tothe next post. These coaches carried not only mail,





valuable packages, but passengers as well. The coach would carry twenty pas-
sengers very comfortably inside and out. The route lay through acountry full
of savages and the stage was frequently attacked by them. At such times
driver and passenger knew that they could expect no mercy and fierce battles
often ensued. The coach, however, contained a guard of armed men to pro-
tect the passengers from the savages, yet in many instances this was not suffi-
cient, and oftentimes nota single passenger escaped to tell the story.

It was my lot once to ride on the overland coach from Omaha to Denver.
We had but about two days journey before us, and we were all congratulating
ourselves upon our good fortune in having escaped the savages so far. The driver
was a silent man, somewhat past middle age, and seemed to have but little to
say; his whole attention seemed to be directed to his steeds. As we were roll-
ing merrily along one morning chatting gaily, the driver said, ‘‘ There are tracks
on the roadside and you may all look for a little brush with the savages before
the day closes.” The guards seemed to believe there were savages before us,
and as we saw them looking carefully to the priming of their guns and examin-
ing their cartridge boxes to see that they were full, we became somewhat sober.
We did not, however, forget to look to our arms—such as we had. But a short
time passed ere the driver spied a single savage some distance ahead. He said
nothing—but gathering the reins carefully in his hands, and putting his big
whip where he could use it, he urged the horses onward; after a few moments
we saw another savage, then another—and in less time than it takes to tell the
story we saw ahead of us a large band of mounted savages. There was noth-



ing todo but to make the most of it, and whipping up the horses to their utmost
speed he undertook to go past the terrible foe.

The savages were armed with bows and arrows and, of course, could stand
but little show against the superior weapons of the guards. A single volley
from the guards scattered them somewhat, and it was with real pleasure we
saw several of their number fall from their horses. The savages did not pro-
pose to let us off so easily, however, and soon returned; then began a hand te
hand fight. There were at least two hundred of them and only a dozen of us.
Their arrows fell thick and fast among us, but the savages were too wary to
come too close to the death-dealing guns of our men. We soon saw that if our
horses could only hold out that all would be well, and it was indéed a sight to
see the care with which the driver handled them. He did not seem to notice
the savages or their arrows, but gave his whole attention to his team. The
chase continued for some miles and we thought we would surely escape, but
the savages seemed to realize thaf it was now or never with them, and again
came on with the most unearthly yells and a volley of arrows to which all
their previous assaults had been light indeed.

We met them resolutely. Finding that they could not capture us in any
other way they turned their attention to the horses and soon one of the leaders
fell to the ground wounded with some of their arrows; as he fell the other horses
ran over him, and in an instant all was contusion. The driver succeeded in
stopping his team and we doubled our efforts to keep the savages away. As
soon as the coach was stopped and our men could aim more carefnlly the savages.
realized there was no hope for them, and a few volleys put them to flight, leav-
ing a score of dead and wounded behind them. When the coast was clear we
dismounted, straightened out the horses as best we could and went on after
shooting the horse which the Indians had wounded so severely. We reached
our journey’s end without further danger, but you can rest assured that no one
of us ever cared to again ride on the Overland Mail.





Ghe Stolen Ceaves.

x i HO stole my beautiful leaves?”
3 Whispered the old Oak-tree;

“West-wind, South-wind, look
for the thieves!

Find them, and bring them to me.”

“Not I,” said North-wind; “oh, no,

I would not treat an old friend so;

I found them lying upon the ground,
Brown and dead, and I carried them round
To bring them to life
In the autumn sun,

But I did not steal
A single one.”
“Not I,” said North-wind; “oh! no,
I would not treat an old tree so.”



“Who stole my beautiful leaves?”
Said the weeping Willow tree;
“West-wind, South-wind, look for the thieves!
Find them, and bring them to me,”
“Not I,” said the Frost; “oh! no,
I would not treat an old friend so;
I covered them over with crystals white,
And talked with them in the cold moonlight,
Till I felt the breath
Of the morning sun,
But I did not take
A single one.”
“Not I,” said the Frost; ‘oh! no,.
I would not treat an old tree so.”

“Who stole my beautiful leaves?”

Said the shivering Maple-tree;

“West-wind, South-wind, look for the thieves!
Find them, and bring them to me.”

“Not I,” said the Sun; “oh! no,

I would not treat an old friend so;

I painted your leaves all scarlet and green,
With rows of crimson and gold between,

And I saw them fade
Ere my work was done,
ut I did not take
A single one.”
“Not I,” said the Sun; ‘oh! no,
I would not treat an old tree so.”

“Who stole my beautiful leaves?”
Echoed the Poplar-tree;
“West-wind, South-wind,
thieves!
Find them, and bring them to me.”
“Not I,” said the Rain; ‘oh! no,
I would not treat an old friend so;
I mixed the shades of green and of gold
For the Sun to use, and I always told
The little rain-drops
Which way to run,
But I did not take
A single one.”
“Not I,” said the Rain; “oh! no,
I would not treat an old tree so.”

look for tke

“O Maple, Willow, and Oak,
No one stole your beautiful leaves;”
West-wind, South-wind, pitying said;
“North-wind, Frost, Sun, are not thieves;
They are dead, the Snow-flakes say;
I tell the tale another way:
Waiting in silence under the snow,
Are the souls of the leaves that shall upward
grow
In the resurrection
Of the spring;

When violets bloom

And robins sing,
And new life your heart receives,
To your armswill spring the beautiful leaves!’



qh



@John Dounds’ Sehool.

~" OHN POUNDS was born at Portsmouth in the year 1766, and
as he grew up his parents, who were in humble circumstances,
apprenticed him to a shipwright. Whilst working in the dock-
yard he met with an accident; one of his thighs was broken, he
was rendered a cripple for life and had to seek another means
of subsistence. He took to mending shoes, and lived ina
eae boarded house in St. Mary’s street in his native town.

Being of a gentle and humane disposition, he was fond of animals, and
kept a number of tame birds in his stall, and his good nature moved him to
take charge of a child belonging to his brother, who had a numerous family.
This poor child was acripple, his feet overlapping each other, but the ingenious
cobbler contrived an apparatus of old shoes and straps, by means of which the
boy’s feet were kept in their right position and he was soon cured. The kind-
hearted John next taught him to read, and, thinking that his little nephew would
learn better with companions, he asked a neighbor to send him his children to
be taught. Others followed, and soon the wooden booth, which was eighteen
feet long by six in width, was crowded to overflowing. His teaching was all
gratuitous, and he delighted in reclaiming and teaching ‘‘the little blackguards,”
as he called them, He sought out the ragged urchins on thé quays of the town,
and bribed them with a roasted apple to come to his school.

He managed to procure some fragments of old school-books, and from
these and some old hand-bills he taught the children to read; whilst with slate
and pencil they learned writing and arithmetic. His method of instruction was
by means of questions. Seated with his lapstone on his knee in the midst of
his mob of little pupils, he would go on with his work, whilst asking them the
names of different objects and then making them spell them. With the younger
ones he was very playful. He would touch a little one’s ear and say: ‘“‘What’s
this?” And when the child replied: “Ear,” he would say: “Spell it.” Then,
pinching it gently, he would say: “What doI do?” “Pinch.” “Then spell
that,” said he. And so on with the hand or foot,

As the children grew older he adopted a stricter discipline with them, but
they all loved him; and many hundreds of persons, filling useful positions in
life, owed all the Banerion they ever received to the poor cobbler, whose sole
reward was the joy he felt in doing good to others, and in the visit, now and
then, of some brave soldier or sailor, grown out of all remembrance, who came
to shake hands with their kind old teacher. Though he was favorably noticed





by the local authorities, he never got one penny for his services, and lived the
most frugal and self-denying life, known chiefly to his poorer neighbors.
On the 1st of January, 1839, when John Pounds was seventy-two years of
: age;. hey and’ {his
nephew determined
to have a grand din-
ner in honor of New
Year's Day, and they
bought a mug of
, sprats; but before
; they were cooked, as
he was looking at a
picture of his school
which had recently
been done for him,
he suddenly fell
down and expired.
Great was the
grief and consterna-
tion of the children,
and the younger ones
could hardly be made
to understand that
their kind old friend
was really gone from
them, and many of
them came to the
door next morning
and cried because
they could not be
admitted; and for
several days the little
ones would come in
groups of two or
three, look about the
deserted room, and,
not finding their

aa

'

i

,
|































































































































































































































































































































































































































































ean
friend, go sorrowfully away.
John Pounds was a true benefactor to his species, though he was only a



poor cobbler, for he was the originator of those ragged schools which have
since done so much to instruct the children of the poorest class and save them
irom lives of misery and crime.

«@nly @ne [M)cther.”

“Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky;
Hundreds of shells on the shore together,
Hundreds of birds that go singing by;
Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather.

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the morn;
Hundreds of lambs in the purple clover;
Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn;

But only one mother the wide world over.”

| a big ‘holiday heart!” Just what that means we may guess.

aH Good housebuilders and good homekeepers know that holiday
at hearts make holiday faces; and to our children are priceless pic-
tures on the home walls.

The sun comes straight in and comes, as Ike Marvel says, ‘‘goldenly.” . It
begins with a cheery breakfast, and is attendant upon every hour of each day.
No everyday guest is more welcome. All the windows of the heart catch the
morning, with its light and air, just as the warm east sunshine should gener-
ously flush the coffee cups. Holiday hearts glorify the little bright faces, fresh
from the night’s sleep and the morning bath!

The day begins with sunshine—even when the rain come down!

Mr. Thackeray liked “Clive Newcome” because he was not such a bril-
liant boy, maybe, but always pleasant.

Pleasantness is so contagious. The good mother had been up all night
with baby, who had the croup; papa wasn’t in asaintly mood, Jany looked glum;
and Susie whimpered. Jack came bounding in with “Here’s the Morning Post,
papa,” in such an excited, cheery way papa had to smile.

“The top of the morning to ye, polly-wog,” he shouted to whimpering
Susie, who laughed; and as Bridget came in, with the cakes she “felt quite
lifted with the breeze.” The pale mother felt the little brown fingers on her
shoulder with a thrill, as her merry boy passed her chair and took his seat at
the table.

So the sunshine came in with Jack! Enough to cover the whole family!





@® PDoll’s Story.

OU needn’t laugh at me just because I am yellow and covered
with tiny cracks and don’t happen tobe dressed like your other
dolls. I know I jook funny and old-fashioned to you, but really
my heart is as young as ever it was.

And when your grandmama was a little girl this way of wear-
ing the hair was very fashionable, and it was considered quite
vulgar to wear heels on one’s shoes, and so mine were made as
you see, and were thought very genteel, indeed.

I was so happy yesterday, for Miss Martha said that we were to have com-
pany, and she took me out of my box, where I had been laid away for so long
that itis a treat to get out of my paper wrappings.

Her “grand-niece,” she said. So you are her grand-niece! Well! you favor
your grandmama, child. You are very like what she was at your age: the
same yellow hair and laughing mouth, only your eyes are not so blue nor your
skin so fair as hers was. Or amI forgetting? Was it her sister Betsy who
was light? Yes, it was Betsy; I remember now, your grandmama was quite dark.
How one does forget in seventy years!

Lam a little stiff, you notice, but it’s no wonder, forit is fully twenty years
since I was last out of my box; then, too, we were taught in my time to stand
or sit very straight and stiff, and habits grow very strong upon one, you know.

How well I remember the last time Miss Martha had me out. Twenty
years ago—that was long before you were born, mydear. They gave me to your
Aunt Lucy to play with, I recollect. I don’t like to speak ill of your kinfolk,
child, but really your Aunt Lucy was a very rude girl. She laughed at my
oddly-dressed hair and made fun of my flat feet, and made the most odious
comparisons between me and an ill-bred china doll that she carried; and she
stuck pins into me to such an extent that I assure you I had a pain in my in-



side for hours.
She is a woman now and I understand that she is very well mannered and

gentle, but somehow it always gives me a turn even to think of her.

And your Uncle Rob, your great-uncle I mean, he used to tease me too,
He once tied me to the cat’s back and I was terribly frightened. To this day I
am afraid of cats and china dogs.

I know it sounds silly, but I cannot overcome my fear of china dogs. Now
your grandmama had one, a brown and white one, that used to sit upon the
parlor mantel, and he looked very gentle indeed, when, really, he was a most



ferocious beast. I had it froma friend of mine who heard him growl savagely
atthe cat worked upon your grandmama’s sampler. My friend fainted with
fright and remained unconscious for fully forty minutes, until she was aroused
by the striking of your great-grandfather’s clock and the whirring of the wheels
as the heavy weights ran down.

But I was telling you how your oreat-uncle, Rob, tied me to the cat’s back.
i was wearing a pink muslin frock anda buff pelisse and a tippet that your
grandmama had just finished. I always tried to keep my clothes neat and tidy
and so I was lying quite still upon the shelf, that my new finery should not be-
come mussed.

Robespied meand he called the cat. I can hear his voice now as he called,
«Puss, nice pussy, come here, puss.” Strange how one can recalla voice after
‘seventy years! Puss came, suspecting no mischief, and in a twinkling Rob had
tied me to herback with a stout piece of pack-thread, and she was tearing
across the yard at such a mad pace that I was breathless with fear.

I think that Rob was frightened when he saw this, for he had meant no harm,
but only to have a bit of sport. Away we flew into the barn and up on the hay-
mow, when the string broke and I felt myself slipping down—down toward the
horses’ manger. My love, I cannot tell you my sensations as I felt the hot
breath of the great monsters, but they only pushed me to one side, where Rob
soon found me.

He carried me back and laid meon my shelf, but my tippet was lost and my
pelisse torn and ruined; and there was a large ugly crack across my neck; lift
up my gold beads, dear, and you can see it now.

Rob bought these beads as a peace-offering, and your grandmama tied
them on with her own hands. I havenever had them off since then. Be careful, »
dear, the silk thread may have become tender with age and it might break easily,
and I should not like anything to happen to them.

It may sound sentimental, but I should like always to keep them on ac-
count of Rob. Poor lad! it must be fifty odd years since he was drowned.

I can’t tell you the story, child, for whenever I think of him such a lump
comes in my throat that it opens the old crack, and I cannot speak at all.

Well! well how I have run on, andreally my throat begins to ache, and you
must notice that my voice is growing husky. I dare say it’s because I can’t help
thinking of your great-uncle, dear, but I think I must stop talking now.

Lay me down carefully, child, for 1am not so young as I once was, and!
feel quite fatigued. There! that will donicely. How gentle youare, my dear,
quite like what your grandmama was seventy years ago.



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Aid the Raisin to the klmond SaidtheRaisin tothe Almond
was once agfullof wine “ Wearebothfrom Southern lands, |
As a dewdrop ig of'surlight, nd we come once more together,
And a slossy skin was mine. Having fallerin Englisk hands”
II V
| Said the Almord tothe Raisin, Dont you think we ought tomarry?|
“Ard I've a tale to tell Tain sure’twould be as well, |
lwas borr inside aflower, Though youhavelost your juices, .
And lived withiragkell? xd Thave lost my shell.” |

VI
naid the Almond to the Raisin
** It ig my dearest wisk ”

x x x xX xxx XxX

Thats why you always fied bheleg

Side by side wititie the Lisi:
Pat

os Ina dish all silver bright. |
: A Raisin dusky purple, 3
Ard ar Almond creamy-white.





@he Prineess {Ceona.

HE was a dainty, blue-eyed, golden-haired darling, who had ruled
her kingdom but four short years when the events in our history
occurred. Very short the four years had seemed, for the baby
. princess brought into the quiet old house such a wealth of love,
WK, with its golden sunshine, that time had passed rapidly since her
arrival, as time always does when we are happy and contented.

Our little princess did not owe her title to royal birth, but to
her unquestioned sway over those around her; a rule in which was so happily
blended entreaty and command that her willing subjects were never quite sure
to which they were yielding. But of one thing they were sure, which was that
the winning grace of the little sovereign equalled their pleasures in obeying her
small commands, and the added fact—a very important one—that this queen
of hearts never abused her power.

No little brothers nor sisters were numbered among the princess’ retainers,
but she had had from her babyhood an inseparable companion and playfellow
in Moses. Now Moses was a big brown dog who, like his namesake of old, had
been rescued from a watery grave, and it chanced that baby-girl and baby-dog
became inmates of the quiet old house about the same time. But the dog
grew much faster than the little girl, as dogs are wont to do, and was quite a

responsible person by the time Leona could toddle around. When -she was

Id enough to play under the old elm tree Moses assumed the place of
protector of her little highness, and was all the body-guard the princess needed,
for he was wise and unwearied in his endeavors to guard her from all mishaps.
But, although Moses felt the responsibility of his position, he did not consider
it beneath his dignity to amuse his mistress, and so they played together, baby
and dog, shared their lunch together, and frequently took their nap together of
a warm afternoon, the golden curls of the little princess tumbled over Moses’
broad, shaggy shoulder.

One day when Leona was about four years old an event occurred in her
life that seemed for a time to endanger the intimacy between the little girl and
her four-footed friend, and caused Moses considerable anxiety. It was a rainy
morning and she could not play under the trees as usual, so she took her little
chair and climbed up to the window to see if the trees were lonesome without
her.. Something unusual going on in the house next door attracted her attention
and her disappointment was soon forgotten. No one had lived in the house





since the little girl could remember. Now the long closed doors and windows
were thrown wide open, and men were running up and down the steps. She
was puzzled to know what it could all mean, and kept her little face so close to
the window, and was so unmindful of Moses, that he felt quite neglected and
lonely.

The following morning was warm and bright and the little princess and her
attendant were playing under the trees again. Moses was so delighted in hav.
ing won the sole attention of his little mistress and played so many drol}
pranks that Leona shouted with laughter. In the midst of her merriment
she chanced to look up, and saw through the paling a pair of eyes as bright
as her own, dancing with fun and evidently enjoying Moses’ frolic quite as
much as the little girl herself. The bright eyes belonged toa little boy about
Leona’s age, whose name was Jamie, and who had moved into the house that
had interested her so much the day before.

Now our little princess in her winning way claimed the allegiance of all
that came within her circle, and so confidently ran over to the fence to make
the acquaintance of her new subject. Jamie was quite willing to be one of her
servitors, and although they were separated by the high palings they visited
through the openings all the morning, and for many mornings after, exchang-
ing dolls, books, balls, and strings, and becoming the best of friends. This
new order of things was not quite satisfactory to Moses, who felt he was no
longer necessary to Leona’s happiness. He still kept his place close beside
her, and tried to be as entertaining as possible. But do what he would he
could not coax her away from her new-found friend, and all the merry plays
under the old elm tree seemed to have come to an end, but Leona was not
really ungrateful to her old playfellow. She was deeply interested in her new
¢ompanion and for the time somewhat forgetful of Moses, which is not much
to be wondered at, when we remember what great advantage over Moses Jamie
had in one thing. He could talk with Leona and Moses could not. But
although the dog’s faithful heart ached at the neglect of his little mistress, he
did not desert his place of protector, but watched and guarded the princess
while she and her friend prattled on all the long, bright days, quite unconscious
of his trouble.

One afternoon Leona’s happiness reached its highest point. Her mother
had been watching the visiting going on through the fence, and saw Leona’s
delight in her new companion, so, unknown to her, she wrote a note, asking that
Jamie be permitted to come into the yard and play under the elm tree. When
Leona saw Jamie coming up the walk, in her own yard, her delight knew no
pounds. She ran to meet him, and dolls and buggies and carts and everythine



she prized was generously turned over to her visitor. How quickly the after-
moon passed. Moses was as happy as the children themselves—for if he could
not talk he could at least bark, and now they were altogether under the tree,
his troubles were forgotten and which were the happier, children or dog, it were
hard to say. So with merry play the beautiful day came toaclose. The sun
was sending up his long golden beams in the west. Jamie was called home, and
Leona came into the house. The tired little eyes were growing drowsy and
the soft curls drooped over the nodding head when mamma undressed her
little girl to make her ready for bed. Then Leo knelt beside her little bed
and repeated the prayer she had been taught: “Now, I lay me down to
sleep,” and “God bless papa and mamma and everybody, and make Leonaa
good girl.” But when she had done she did not rise as usual; looking up
earnestly at her mother, she said: ‘Please, mamma, 1 want to pray my own
prayer now.” Then folding her little hands, the sweet childish voice took on
an earnestness it had not shown before, as she said: ‘‘Dear Father in heaven,
I thank you for making Jamie, and’cause his mamma let him come in my yard
to play. Please make lots more Jamies,” and with this sincere expression
of her grateful heart, and her loving recognition that all our blessings come
from the Father above, the tired, happy little girl was ready for bed and soon
asleep.

Moses lay sleeping contentedly on the rug beside the princess’ little bed.
He too had hada happy day. Iwonder if he had any way to express his thank-
fulness to his Creator, the same Father in heaven to which Leona prayed, for
the love and companionship of his little playfellows, and for the bright, happy
day he had spent? I believe he had. What do you think about it?

—Anna L. PARKER





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.OxeNForD.



@ \Occk of @hanksgiving.

ISS ROXY was darning a table-cloth. Miss Roxy being on the
: warm side of fifty, still adhered to some of the careless ways
of youth; she would bite off her thread in spite of warnings
and protests from her more sedate elder sister, half expecting
areproof. This morning, however, she escaped, and when
Miss Eunice took off her spectacles, it was only to say, in an
annoyed tone:
“T declare, if a week from to-day ain't Thanksgiving! Does seem
to me it’s coming pretty early in the Season, with the leaves hardly
down and the grass green as.summer.’

« A week is time for a good deal to happen,” said Miss Roxy ‘“‘I wonder if
John’s wife will ask us up there this year. Don’t reely seem as if she could with
the children just getting over the measles, and John so behindhand on account
of his broken leg.”

“Well, Roxy,” said Miss Eunice, “it does seem as if it was kind of forcing
things to make much fuss over Thanksgiving. I don’t say we oughtn’t to be
thankful, but a body might do that without having a day set for it. Look at
John’s folks now, and look at us, with every last dollar of our savings gone just
as we had a chance to make a good investment in that creamery.”

“Yes, it’s hard, but I’d rather be the one to lose than the one to rob poor
folks of their savings. I tell you, Eunice, we ought to be thankful we ain’t
neither of us the cashier of that bank.”

“Don't be a fool, Roxy,” said her sister, grimly.

“Well, then,” persisted Roxy, “I’m thankful John wasn’t; a broken leg
ain't half so tryin’ as a bad conscience.”

“Of course they wont ask us there,” said Miss Eunice, “and I wouldn’t go
if they did. We'll stay at home and keep our thankfulness and our troubles
to ourselves. I don’t mean to go to church.”

“Eunice Martin!” said Miss Roxy, with an appalled face.

‘“No, I don’t. Mercy sakes, Roxy! you needn't look so scared. The
Lord didn’t appoint Thanksgiving Day any more’n Trainin’ Day, or ’Lection
Day. It’s just the governor, and I’ve read that he was a regular infidel, any-
how.”

Miss Eunice put a little shawl over her head, and went out to see how old
Silas Bowles was getting on with the wood he was sawing, or rather should have






been sawing, for as Miss Eunice came to the door of the shed her keen eyes
pounced upon the old man sitting on the chopping block, his bleared eyes
closed in tipsy slumber, while a bottle rested between his feet.

“The miserable old sot!” said Miss Eunice, looking scornfully at the sleep-
er, who quickly roused himself and bustled off for the saw, saying:

“"Scuse me, ma'am, I’m kinder beat out this mornin’, been watchin’ all
night with a sick critter, and I set down to file the saw and kinder lost my-
self.”

‘Here's your /ile,” said Miss Eunice, significantly, picking up the bottle.

“That? Oh, yes, that’s a sort of mixter I keep on hand for the spells that
ketch me in the stomach. It’s juniper berries and—and—”

“Whisky,” said Miss Eunice, grimly.

“Well, yes, there’s a leetle liquor in it; not more’n you have in your cam-
phire bottle,” said the old reprobate, slyly.

“Tf folks only took liquor through their zoses, a whisky bottle mightn’t do
any more harm than a camphor bottle,” and Miss Eunice went away. She was
on her morning rounds to the barn and the chicken house, and she came back
with a couple of new-laid eggs in her apron, to find the saw again silent, and
oid Silas sitting comfortably in the corner of the kitchen, with a bowl of hot
coffee in his clumsy hand.

Roxy answered her look of indignant inquiry with a brave little smile
quite unusual to her, and the old man paused between his sips to say apolo-
getically:

‘“‘T jes’ come in f’r s'm taller to grease the saw, ’n Miss Roxy she fixed me
wp a bowl of coffee. Goes to the spot, I c’n tell ye, when a body hain’t got
nothin’ inside of him but cold pancakes.”

‘Cold pancakes!” said Miss Eunice, incredulously.

“Yes’m; my old woman’s over to Cap’n Cady’s makin’ sassidge and tryin’
oui. She ‘lowed she’d git through last night and fetch home suthin’. Mis’
Cady she’s allus free with her help, but ’pears they didn’t git done.”

The old man finished his coffee, picked up his bit of tallow candle, and
went out.

“Cold pancakes!” said Miss Eunice scornfully. ‘I found him asleep over
a whisky bottle. Is’pose vou gave him that extra chop. I call that encour-
aging drunkenness.”

“Well, I call it d/scouraging it,” said Miss Roxy, cheerfully. “If I had to
start in for a day’s work on cold pancakes I might take to tippling, like as not,
And I may as well tell you, Eunice, I made up my mind if we wa’nt going to
keep Thanksgiving this year any special day, I'd sort of spread it out as fur as

‘



‘twould reach, and I begun to-day. Iam giving thanks that John ain’t a poor,
tipsy, old toper, and that breakfast was my thank-offering.

Miss Eunice went slowly to the pantry to put away her eggs, remarking te
herself:

‘Some folks never do seem to grow up.”

Silas came to his work the next day in quite a comfortable condition of
body and mind. His “old woman” had come home; the family larder was
enriched by such store of “‘sassidge” and spare-rib as it had not seenin a twelve-
month. The weather was blustering, however, and Miss Eunice made ne
objection when Roxy set the coffee-pot on the back of the stove, that the old
man might be warmed up by an opportune draught.

“I suppose you're still giving thanks about John,” said Miss Eunice, looking
curiously at her sister.

“No,” said Miss Roxy, laughing in her silent fashion, “I’m giving thanks
that I ain’t Silas Bowles’ old woman.

“Well, of all things,” said Miss Eunice, but Miss Roxy was calmly survey-
ing some red flannel shirts John’s wife had given her to make a stripe for the
new Carpet.

‘“That’s a nice red,” she said, spreadiag a garment on herlap. “I thought
I'd get at it and work ’em up before the moths got into ’em, but it seems most
a pity to cut em up. There's a good deal of wear in ’em yet if they was fixed
over. Don’t you remember, Eunice, what a master hand mother was to make
over.

“Was ye cal'lating to make over them shirts for me or for you?” asked
Miss Eunice, with grim sarcasm.

“I was thinking of the McBoles; Jimmy looked so frozen when he came
over last night; I don’t s’pose Bridget can sewany more than a hen, but I could
fix these up so’t they'd go all winter.”

“And leave out your red stripe?”

“Yes, I believe I'll leave out the red stripe. I can—”

“Can what?” said Miss Eunice impatiently, as her sister stopped in the
middle of her sentence.

“Make a little thank-offering of it for to-morrow,” said Miss Roxy, very
gently, and was soon absorbed in piecing and patching and reducing the gar-
ments te the dimensions of the small boy she measured in her imagination.
Miss Eunice clattering away in the pantry, smiled compassionately to hear her
singing over her work.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, no want shall I know,
I feed in green pastures, safe-folded I rest,”



‘Roxy's voice ain't what it used to be,” she reflected, ‘but she’s a nice
singer yet, and she don’t seem to fall off much in her looks, as I see.” |

Miss Roxy’s week of Thanksgiving was almost ended. The day dawned
upon the world with clear, bright skies over a fleece of light snow that caught
the sparkle of the sunshine on millions of crystalline shapes. Her heart had
been growing warmer and younger with each day of kindly deeds, and now, as
she drew aside the curtain and looked out on the splendor of the morning, she
said softly:

‘And I saw a new heaven and a new earth.’”

“Well,” said Miss Eunice, in an injured tone, “this settles it about going
to church; we can’t walk over in this slosh. I must say I think it’s curious
John’s not coming near us all the week. He might have sent some word and
said he was sorry not to have us come over, but I s’pose it’s his wife’s doings.
When a man of his time of life marries a young widder with three children,
tain’t to be expected his old maid sisters will count for much.”

Miss Roxy went about her morning work meditating upon the possibility
of going to church alone, but Jimmy McBole made his appearance at the house,
heading a procession of small boys, all in a state of noisy hilarity. A big, good-
natured dog was harnessed to a sled, behind which had been soaeemored an
ingenious scraper, with handles like a plow, which the boys took turns in holding,
the tenure of office only lasting until some one succeeded in tumbling the in-
cumbent into the nearest ditch.

‘‘We've cleaned a path to the gate,” said Jimmy, proudly, “and we're going
to the well and the barn, and clean up to the meetin’-house. Mother said she
knew you'd go to meetin’ on Thanksgivin’ Day, ef you had to swim there,
but we'll fix ye afust-rate path,” and with a crack of his whip, Jimmy roused up
the dog and started his cavalcade onward.

“‘T declare,” said Miss Eunice, ‘if that ain’t a real ingenious contrivance!
Treckon we will have to go, after all, seein’ it’ turned off so pleasant.”

Miss Roxy was thinking of Jimmy McBole with his coat unbuttoned to
show a bit of the warm red shirt; of the grateful look in poor old Sally Dow’s
faded eyes when she brought her the cushion of blue and black scraps filched
from her hoarded carpet rags, and her heart was still in a flutter at the thought
of the pleased surprise of the minister's wife, when she pressed into her hand
a five-dollar gold piece; ‘‘A little thank-offering for the good you have done me,”
she said, hurriedly. That gold piece had been saved many a year, in case of
anything “happening unexpected,” but nothing had happened, and now it
was gone Miss Roxy really felt lighter, as if she had got rid of the danger

also. \



In the porch outside, John’s man met them after the service, with sleigh
and extra robes for the long ride.

‘Going over? Of course we ain't,” said Miss Eunice. ‘We ain’t so hard
pushed as to take invitations this time of day.”

‘Didn't you git Mis’ Martin’s letter?” said Ezra, staring at them. ‘She
wrote ye; I heard her say so, andI seen her give it to Mr. Martin to mail when
I was takin’ him to the deepo. I bet it’s in his pocket yit.”

‘“‘To the deepo! Where’s he gone?” said Miss Eunice, sharply.

‘‘Gone to the city; he was called sudden the day he was cal’latin’ to drive
over and see ye. Hadn't ye better be gitting in? It’s a middlin’ long ways,
and the sleighin’ ain’t none too good.”

The sisters settled themselves in silence, and not a word was said until
just as the sled was passing the shut-up house Miss Eunice called out:

‘‘Stop a minute, Ezra, I’ve got to go in.”

She disappeared a few minutes and came out with a basket in her hand,
saying:

‘I just thought I’d take that chicken-pie and cranb’ry sass over to Malviny
Bowles as we went by. Seems a pity to have ’em wasted, and I dare say they
wont have anything out of the common run.”

They left the unexpected bounty at Silas’ door, and sped on over the long,
hilly country road. Only once Ezra turned his frosty face toward them to say,
from the depths of his woolen comforter:

‘‘Say, I heard Mr. Martin tellin’ the deepo master they'd got back that
money that was stole, every last dollar.”

Silence for some minutes, and then the man turned again to add:

‘That feller that was goin’ to start the creamery, he’s failed up; gone all
to smash. Lots of folks has lost by him, they say.”

‘Poor things,” said Miss Roxy, compassionately.

‘‘Roxana Martin,” said Miss Eunice, grimly, ‘I’m an ungrateful oldgump,
and don’t deserve to have another Thanksgiving long as I live.”

‘If we only got what we deserved, Eunice,” said Miss Roxy, mildly, “we'd
all of us be dretful bad off.”

‘Well, I’ve been feeling so cross-grained all the week I feel as if I sh’d
have to keep Thanksgiving a month to git square.”

—EMILy HUNTINGTON MILLER.



[The Sparrews and the Snew-Flakes.

AID the sparrows to the snow-flakes: “Dear sparrows,” said the snow-flakes..



“Where did you come from, pray? “Now do not get so mad:
You make the trees all wet and cold; We come from yonder cloudland,
We wish you'd go away.” To make the children glad.
Said the snow-flakes to the sparrows: “And the little ones who love us,
“Don’t be so rude and bold; They love the sparrows too;
Your feather coats are nice and warm— They’ll scatter crumbs each morning,
You cannot feel the cold.” And houses build for you.’’.
Said the sparrows to the snow-flakes: “Of course we will, and gladly,”
“You cover up the way; Said the little children all.
We'll starve, because we cannot find “We love the tiny snow-flakes—
A thing to eat to-day.” We love the sparrows small.”

—N. M. G